


You Put Me on a Shelf (and Kept Me For Yourself)

by Anonymous



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Autofellatio, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Peter Parker, Chastity Device, Cock Warming, Comeplay, Complete, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deepthroating, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Felching, First Time, Like... Really Bottom Peter Parker, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink, Riding, Rimming, Shower Sex, Sloppy Seconds, Spitroasting, Teen Peter, Underage - Freeform, Vibrators, Wall Sex, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 68,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7851127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Want to know a secret?”</i>
</p><p>  <i>Deadpool tugs his mask up to his nose and closes the last few inches between them, until his lips are barely brushing Peter’s ear. “I’m one of those guys your daddies always warned you about. One of those sick, filthy perverts who gets off to cute little pretty boys begging on their knees.”</i></p><p>EDIT: Now features an Alternate Ending!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a few notes:  
> \- this fic is not Civil War compliant. It takes place in the MCU, but in a universe where everyone lives happily-ever-after, whatever. The point is that Steve and Bucky are happy together, and Peter is their adopted son.  
> \- The Peter here is up to interpretation. He's not necessarily the Peter from CW, or from the Amazing Spider-Man movies, or from any cartoon version, he's just Peter here. Interpret him how you will.

It seems fitting that he first sees the man on his first patrol- his first _real_ patrol, that is.

It takes Peter a while to figure out a good routine, to find the route that covers the most ground in the least amount of time. A few of the first nights, he’d ended up out until dawn. A month into his Spidey-Crusade, he draws up a map of the city and charts out a plan. He decides to stick to the borough; there are other superheroes for other places, and New York is chock full of them. Besides, they mostly hang around Brooklyn and Manhattan. He’s not going to single-handedly protect the whole of New York City- he knows his limits; he’s not an idiot.

He feels a bit like an idiot, though, when three guys manage to corner him in the little alley behind the Indian restaurant just off of Atlantic Avenue. It’s laughable how easily they take him down, in retrospect. To be fair, each of them has a gun with him. Peter has his wits and his canisters.

One of the bullets grazes his wrist, cutting straight through the fabric. It’s only because of his spider senses that it doesn’t shoot straight through Peter’s hand, but it’s a near thing. With his new-and-improved ears, he can hear the little glass canisters shatter under the suit.

He can still climb, he remembers, and sets to the wall.

Only it turns out that wearing a bright red suit on an otherwise dark wall makes you a bit of a target, and he can’t climb very fast with a bleeding wrist-

He makes a mental note to reconsider putting _glass canisters_ right up against his _wrists._

-so he drops back down to the ground, looking from side to side to see if there’s another way out of this mess.

The tallest of the guys raises his gun with a lazy, slack little grin. He turns the gun sideways as if it’s too much effort to keep it upright, narrows his eyes, and-

Two blades explode out of his stomach.

The guy drops the gun to the ground. It doesn’t go off, which is a _miracle._ He stares down at the two katanas poking out his stomach and opens his mouth, apparently trying to say something. But his lungs must not work- probably, Peter thinks, because they’ve both just been popped like water balloons- because he doesn’t get a single word out. Peter hears the sound of something dully hitting something else, and the guy slides forward off of the katanas, landing on his stomach in a messy puddle. The puddle, Peter notices, begins to turn red.

He tears his eyes off the dead guy- Jesus, he’s just seen someone being skewered to death, what the fuck is his life now- and looks up to find someone standing in the guy’s place.

Peter’s first dumbstruck thought is that this guy can’t be wearing a red suit. Peter’s wearing a red suit. The red suit is _his thing._

The stranger pulls his katanas back and touches the tip of one to what Peter can only assume is his nose. His face is covered in a sleek-looking mask, nothing compared to Peter’s veritable ski-mask-with-goggles. His eyes are framed by black almost-diamonds, with white material to mark the eyes. The stranger squints at the end of his katana- which is soaked through with blood, now- and then twirls it in the air before sheathing it back in the holster on his back. He does the same to the other one without preamble.

The other two gun-guys drop their weapons and hold their hands up. When the stranger doesn’t move, they bolt out of the alley.

The stranger waits until their footsteps fade away before cocking his head to the side.

“Hiya,” he says.

“Uh,” Peter says.

“You’re new around here.”

The stranger bends down and heaves the dead guy onto his back, then props him up and starts to peel off his blood-soaked jacket.

“Listen,” Peter says, unable to tear his eyes off the man on the ground, the man that is dead, oh god he’s dead. “Listen, um. Thank you for, uh.”

“Don’t mention it,” the stranger says brightly. He sounds downright chipper, considering the fact that he’s just murdered someone. “You know, you’re cute when you’re scared.”

Peter blinks.

The stranger pulls out a thick wallet from the man’s jacket pocket, then slides the jacket back over the man’s shoulders. He grabs underneath the man’s arms and hefts him into the air. With a grunt, he tosses the man up over his shoulders.

“Go on, do your little patrol thing,” he says, waving his free hand. The man on his shoulders starts oozing blood onto his suit, but the stranger doesn’t seem to mind. “Don’t you worry your cute little butt about this, I’ve got it covered.” He winks, and Peter blinks, and then he’s gone.

Amazingly, Peter’s first thought is not ‘a man just murdered someone in front of me’, ‘a man just murdered someone _for_ me’, or ‘oh my _god there’s a dead person I just saw someone get killed I don’t think I should be standing up right now.’_

Okay, it might be a little bit of the last one.

But mostly, it’s ‘how the hell did he get his mask to wink?’

* * *

“Well, don’t you look well-rested.”

Peter jumps at the sound of his father’s voice, sending his chair four inches away from the table with a loud _honk._

Bucky laughs, reaching over and ruffling his hair. Peter tries his best to scowl, but his mouth won’t quite let him frown.

“Is it really that obvious?”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky says. “I won’t tell Steve.”

“Really?” Peter blinks in surprise.

“Not yet,” Bucky corrects himself. “I mean, eventually we’re gonna sit you down and have a nice little chat about it, and he’s gonna yell at me for not telling him as soon as I found out, and we’re gonna fight for, like, two days. And then he’s gonna stop sulking, and we’ll set some ground rules out for you.”

Peter stares.

“But for now,” Bucky says, heading into the kitchen and opening up the top cupboard, “I’ll give you some slack.”

“Slack?” Peter repeats.

“Look, kid, you’ve got a choice,” Bucky says, pulling out a saucepan. He weighs it in his hand for a moment. Peter’s pretty sure he’s just doing that to show off how amazing he is in the kitchen, because he doesn’t think anyone in the history of ever has actually cared how much their frying pan weighs. He can’t complain much, though, because Bucky is absolutely _legendary_ in the kitchen. Peter’s fairly sure he knows what his dad sounds like during one of their ‘date nights’, because that sound had come out of his mouth the moment he’d taken his first bite of Bucky’s chicken tikka masala. He also doesn’t know why they keep calling them ‘date nights’. Again, Peter’s not an idiot.

“What choice?” Peter asks. “Is the choice whether or not we tell Steve? Because I think I know the answer to that one.”

“You can,” Bucky says, ignoring him, “keep doing what you’re doing, and we’ll sort all that stuff out to make sure you don’t wind up murdered somewhere in a ditch at fuck-o-clock on shit-erday morning, _or_ if you take some time and then decide it’s not what you want, you can drop it. You stop, and I don’t tell Steve, and no one has to know.”

“You’re giving me a bail-out?”

“Pretty much.” Bucky shrugs, setting the pan down on the stove and flicking the heat on to medium. “Let’s say another month, all right?”

“A month,” Peter says, nodding. “Okay.”

“And you let me know when you go, so I at least got something to work with if you go missing,” Bucky adds, walking to the fridge. He frowns, looking for the eggs.

“Fair enough,” Peter says. “So in a month, you’re gonna ask me what my decision is?”

“Yep,” Bucky says, popping the ‘p’. He squints. “Are we outta eggs? Fuck.”

“No, they’re just in the back. I had to move ‘em to make room for the leftover soup,” Peter says. “And what if I know my decision now?”

“A- _ha,”_ Bucky crows, arm disappearing into the fridge. Peter hears a few glass bottles knock over, but when Bucky’s arm comes out, it’s clamped tightly around the cardboard carton of eggs. “Wait, what?”

“If I already know what I want to decide,” Peter says. “Do you still want me to wait? Or do you want me to tell you, so we can get the whole rule-thing over with?”

“Pete,” Bucky says, setting the eggs down and leaning on the counter. He folds his arms and gives one of those fond fatherly smiles that Peter kind of hates but kind of loves. “It’s a big decision, no one’s asking you to make it now.”

“But I know what I want,” Peter says, sitting up in his chair, all lethargy forgotten. “I do, I really do.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“I want to do this,” Peter says quietly. “There’s people out there who could get hurt if I don’t. Not just good people, but. Other people, too. I don’t want to kill anyone, I just.” He sighs. “I just want to make as much of a difference as I can. That’s why I go out, that’s why I do what I do.”

Bucky looks at him for a long few seconds. And then he lets out a breath.

“Well, fuck,” he says. “I thought you were getting laid.” And then he cups his hands to his mouth and bellows, _“STEVE!”_

* * *

The second time he sees the man is a little better, because he’s not distracted by the fact that he’s about to die.

The second time he sees the man, he’s walking back from school. His backpack is over his shoulders, digging in with the weight of two textbooks, three notebooks, and a half-full water bottle. His suit is tucked into the bottom, but he’s been trying not to think about it all day, so he just tries to imagine that the extra weight isn’t there.

He’s just trying to think of where to have an after-school bite when he hears gunshots.

Without thinking, he flips his phone out and shoots out a dual text to Bucky and to Steve. It reads _‘SM’._ He taps ‘share GPS location’ and sends it off. As soon as the tiny checkmark appears, letting him know it’s been sent, he shoves the phone back into his pockets and heaves his backpack off.

More gunshots. People start running for cover, there are a few screams. Peter sprints to the nearest alleyway, checks that it’s deserted, and yanks the suit out of his bag. He shoves the backpack and his shoes behind Mama Lee’s dumpster, and tugs the suit on as quickly as he can. He slips his phone underneath his waistband, tugs the zipper up, and rolls down his mask.

As he squints through the eyeholes, he wonders how he’d ever survived in that onesie he’d tried to sew for himself. This is _so much better._ And yeah, some part of him is a little ashamed of it, because come on- not everyone’s dad is pretty much best friends with _Tony freaking Stark,_ not everyone can get a custom made superhero suit made for them, but that part of him is vastly overshadowed by the part of him that internally screams _this is so cool_ every time he puts the thing on.

He swings up out of the alleyway and lands by the door to Mama Lee’s, where he can hear shouts. Another gunshot, broken glass. He slips through the door.

The crowd of patrons is trying to hide- some of them are frozen under their tables, some of them have tried to shield themselves with chairs, and some of them are just standing stock still against the wall. The employees behind the register have their hands up. One of them is crying, eyeliner streaming down her face. The other, the one by the actual register, is a little more stoic, her jaw clenched. In the middle of the room, three people are standing up above the rest.

Two of them have ski masks over their faces- _original,_ Peter thinks- and are decked out in classic black attire. Both of them are holding sleek guns up at the third man standing.

The third man is holding two guns, one in each hand, one pointing at each ski mask. On his back are two sheathed swords, crossed in an ‘X’. His suit is scarlet red, save for the eyes.

“I was in the middle of _ordering,”_ the man in red growls, gesticulating with the guns.

The ski mask closer to Peter shoots. The bullet hits the man in red clearly in the chest, sending him staggering back a foot.

“No!” Peter shouts, before he can stop himself.

All three of them turn. The two ski masks look between the man in red- who is still standing just fine, what the fuck- and Peter. As Peter doesn’t have a gun, they apparently decide the man in red is a bigger threat, so they keep their guns trained over at him instead of pointing them at Peter.

“Hey!” the man in red says. “It’s you!”

“Uh,” Peter says. “Aren’t you, um.”

The man in red looks down at his chest, then back up at Peter. “Nah, that’s nothing- _look at you,_ I didn’t think you’d stick around for this long. Ooh, you’ve got a new costume and everything, it’s even cuter than that little onesie you used to have.”

“It wasn’t a onesie,” Peter grumbles.

“All right, ladies,” says the ski mask closer to Peter. “Enough chit-chat. You,” he says, looking at the man in red. “Get out of here, all right? I’m in the middle of a heist, I don’t have time for your circus act.”

“Jerry,” the other ski mask hisses. “Jerry, don’t make him mad.”

Jerry snorts. “Please. What’s he gonna do?”

“He has a _gun,”_ the other ski mask growls. _“Two of them.”_

“Please, like he’s going to-”

The man in red looks down and shoots Jerry in the foot. Jerry drops his gun to the floor and howls, sinking down to his knees.

“Shit,” the other ski mask says. “Shit, man, I’m sorry, um-”

“This place needs some new décor,” the man in red says, turning his gun on its side. Why do they always do that, Peter wonders, doesn’t that make it harder to aim? “You decide. Just blood, or should we add in some brain matter, too?”

“Stop,” Peter says.

The man in red stares at him.

“Listen, mister,” Peter tries. “I don’t know who you are, but-”

“Oh!”

The man in red shoves his gun into his holster and hops over to Peter, holding out a hand. Peter looks down at it.

“Deadpool,” says the man in red.

“What?”

“I never introduced myself properly, did I?” Without prompting, the man in red takes Peter’s hand and shakes it. Peter can feel the warmth radiating out even through the man’s gloves and through his own suit. “Deadpool. Nice to meet you. Well, nice to meet you again. Nice to actually meet you.”

“Um,” Peter says.

“Jerry,” says the ski mask, kneeling down beside his partner. “Jerry, _shit.”_

“Nice getup,” Deadpool says. “Makes your ass look even cuter than the other one did.”

“Uh,” Peter says.

“Anyway,” Deadpool says, “everything’s all peachy-fine here, baby boy. No need to worry your pretty little head over it.”

“Don’t,” Peter says, but can’t bring himself to finish. Because this guy looks like he weighs about three times as much as Peter does, is still holding one of his guns, and has two katanas strapped to his back. Peter doesn’t feel much like giving him a command.

“Don’t?” Deadpool repeats, raising an eyebrow- and again, how the hell does he do that with his mask?

“Kill them,” Peter finishes. “Don’t. Kill them.”

Deadpool stares.

For what _must_ be an entire hour, he just looks at Peter. Behind him, the ski mask starts mumbling to Jerry, trying to calm him down. The patrons of the restaurant can’t seem to decide to stare at Peter, at Deadpool, or at ski mask and Jerry. Behind the counter, the teary-eyed girl babbles into her phone, no doubt already talking to the police. And then-

“Okay,” Deadpool says.

They end up, somehow, in wire chairs sitting around a rickety table, with a bowl of ice cream between them. Peter’s not entirely sure how it happens, but one moment they’re standing in a Chinese restaurant with three guns in play, and the next they’re sitting outside an ice cream shop and Deadpool is scooping out about a quarter of the hot fudge sauce from their shared sundae without so much as a by-your-leave.

“How are you liking the hero business?” he asks, licking fudge off the back of the spoon.

Peter fiddles with his spoon, grabbing a bit of whipped cream. “It’s,” he says. “Fun?”

“Fun.” Deadpool snorts. “Cute.”

“You keep saying that,” Peter mumbles. He unrolls the mask up to his nose to eat the spoonful of whipped cream.

“Cause it’s true,” Deadpool coos. “So you’re spider-something, right? I mean, with the spider on your chest, and everything.”

“Spiderman,” Peter corrects him. “That’s the working title, anyway.”

“Oh, it’s working,” Deadpool says. “Very nice. You got the climbing walls stuff, right? And the spidery senses?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, nodding.

“Oh, and the _webs,”_ Deadpool gushes. “You can do the webs, right?”

“I,” Peter says. “I mean, I made them, and everything. And Mr. Stark helped me get a system in, so I can shoot them off, and everything. I guess they’re sort of part of the whole… spider thing.”

Deadpool frowns- and Peter realizes that he can actually see the edges of his mouth turn down. “You don’t, like. Make it? With your little wrist-y thing?”

“No, I make it in a lab,” Peter says defensively. And okay, his bedroom isn’t exactly a scientific workplace, but it totally counts as a lab. “But I can shoot it at stuff.”

“Huh,” Deadpool says slowly. “How old are you?”

The subject change nearly pushes Peter out of his seat. His mind flashes in a hundred different directions, each of them a little worse than the last. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, before-

“I’m in college,” he says, because it’s true.

“Oh,” Deadpool says, “okay.” And then he leans forward on the table, looking straight into Peter’s eyes. “I like a good book-smart boy.”

“Um,” Peter says.

“I thought you were cute when you were scared, but you’re _way_ cuter like this,” Deadpool gushes.

Peter’s mouth opens, but nothing else comes out.

Panic bubbles up in his stomach. This is the first time he’s really hung out with, well, pretty much anyone. He’s too young over at the community college to make many friends. He doesn’t join any of their clubs, doesn’t join any of the ones over at the high school he’s officially enrolled at. It had been hard to keep friends in earlier grades when he’d kept skipping ahead, moving classes twice a year. Apart from a nice girl named Gwen in his Chemistry class who’d agreed to be his lab partner, there’s pretty much no one that Peter talks to, besides his parents. Ever.

The fact that he’s out here, talking to someone else, and just kind of _being-_ well, it feels kind of amazing.

Only this guy is obviously older than Peter. His height, voice, and physique are enough to tell Peter that he’s probably in his late twenties- Christ, maybe his thirties. He knows from experience that adults aren’t very quick to talk to a kid that looks like he could drown in his own shoes.

Peter is small and high pitched and very much sixteen, and he’s willing to bet his laptop that this guy is really, _really_ not looking to make friends with someone like him.

He tugs his mask back down over his face.

“Come on, cutie, keep up,” Deadpool says. “What, has no one ever flirted with you before?”

“No,” Peter says, voice stuck somewhere in his throat.

“Aww,” Deadpool gushes. “Aww, _awwwww.”_

“I mean,” Peter says, trying to backtrack. “I mean- I mean, maybe. But I’m kind of terrible at noticing that sort of… thing.” He knows he’s smiling nervously now, and he’s grateful for the mask that’s covering up his ridiculous face. “So thanks for being honest, I guess?”

“Well then,” Deadpool says, “all you need is practice.”

“Practice?”

“Baby boy, your eyes are the most gorgeous things I’ve ever seen.”

Peter feels his cheeks heat up. “You’ve never even seen my eyes,” he mutters, looking down.

Deadpool doesn’t say anything. For a moment, Peter’s worried he’s done something wrong. He looks up, but Deadpool is just… looking at him. His face has gone slack, his lips are parted in a meaningless vowel, and his spoon rests limply on the bowl, barely held by slack fingers.

“Uh,” Peter says.

And like that, the moment’s over. Deadpool blinks. The spoon drops into the bowl.

“See,” Deadpool says, “you’ll get better in no time. Just gotta keep working at it.”

Peter snorts.

The thing is.

The thing is, Peter is sixteen and lonely and the only compliments he ever gets are from his parents. And okay, there are a few from Mr. Stark, and those are _awesome,_ but they’re always stuff like “nice work” or “impressive, let’s see how you do on level two”, or “did you know you’ve gone the longest around here without trying to punch me?” No one in the wide, wide world has ever told Peter that his eyes are beautiful before. Or that he’s cute. Or that he has a nice ass. Or _anything,_ really.

So when Deadpool says “same time next week?” The “yes” leaves his mouth before he can stop it.

* * *

The third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh times he sees Deadpool are all accompanied by the smell of waffle cones.

He loses track after that.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey, dad?” Peter calls, tearing off a piece of pita bread and dipping it in the pool of sauce on his plate.

“Yeah?” Bucky says, at the same time as Steve says, “Yes, Peter?”

Bucky scowls. _“I’m_ dad,” he says. “You’re father.”

“Well, not when you’re not around,” Steve says defensively. “When it’s just Peter and I, he calls me Dad.”

“I meant Steve,” Peter says apologetically.

“Get to the point, kid,” Bucky says.

Peter likes Bucky. He likes how even though Steve and Tony and everyone else calls him ‘kiddo’- or in Clint’s case, ‘little man’, Bucky sticks with the good old-fashioned ‘kid’. Sure, it’s condescending, but it’s a little less patronizing.

“Do you guys know who Deadpool is?” he asks.

Steve’s fork spears through his chicken and cracks straight through his plate.

“Goddamn it, Steve, _again,”_ Bucky mutters.

“Where did you hear that name?” Steve demands.

“I- he was on the news,” Peter stammers. “I heard about him in, um, my journalism class. I’m supposed to be doing a mock-up article about him, and I knew you’d probably know, you know, stuff… about him.”

Neither Steve nor Bucky seem to notice the way he trails off, the way his fingers fidget into fists, the way he rubs the back of his neck. They don’t seem to notice anything about him at all, because they both go quiet. Steve looks at Bucky, who gives a shrug and reaches for the plate of pita bread.

“Is he a superhero?” Peter tries.

“No,” Steve says.

“Well,” Bucky says.

 _“No,”_ Steve says again, flatly.

“So is he a supervillain?” Peter tries.

“Yes,” Steve says.

“Well,” Bucky says. Steve opens his mouth to argue, but Bucky runs him over. “He did save our lives once, Steve.”

“Right after trying to kill us,” Steve points out, grumpily. “Or don’t you remember?”

“I tried to kill you, and look where we are,” Bucky says. He rips off a chunk of pita bread. “Look, I know a bad guy when I see one. And that guy’s got morals, at least.”

“Morals,” Steve repeats, weakly. “I’m sorry, did morals come in to play when he was trying to skewer us both?”

Peter makes a mental note to remember just how many times the word ‘skewer’ comes up when he talks about Deadpool. He’s sensing a pattern.

“Steve, he’s a hitman. He needs money. There’s your morals right there. And did you forget what happened afterward? Once he saw me and you, and recognized who I was?”

Steve huffs. “Excuse me if I’m a little slow on the draw to forgive a man for trying to kill us, just because he thought we were cute.”

“S’ a valid point.” Bucky pours curry onto his pita bread. “He was right.”

“Of course he was,” Steve snaps. “That’s not the point. The _point_ is that he’s… he’s not a superhero, at least not like the rest of us. He’s… different.”

“Insane,” Bucky translates, looking over at Peter. “I hear he went through a lotta shit to get his powers. Makes sense- you don’t get a healing factor like that by filling in an application and saying ‘please’.”

“Regardless,” Steve says, “he’s still dangerous.”

“Eh, I don’t think so.” Bucky shrugs. “He doesn’t hurt kids.”

Warmth explodes out of Peter’s gut- or that might just be the spices.

“What, you know his code of conduct?”

“Maybe.” Bucky stuffs the pita bread into his mouth to avoid having to speak again. Steve frowns.

“The point is,” Steve says, turning to Peter for the first time since Peter had mentioned Deadpool, “it’s easy to underestimate him, or… to assume you know what’s going on in his head. It’s easy to let your guard down. He might not always be malicious, but he’s still dangerous. If you ever see him, Peter…”

He bites his lip worryingly.

“Ask him for an autograph,” Bucky says through a mouthful of Indian food. Steve shoots him a _look._

“Peter, just…” Steve sighs. “Just be careful, all right?”

And Peter knows that his lie about his journalism class hadn’t sailed. He can never pull anything past Steve- it’s like the government had injected him with superhuman lie detecting abilities as well as strength. Actually, he thinks, that might not be such an impossible theory. He’s heard rumors about a few supers who _can_ detect lies with heightened hearing senses- so maybe-

“Peter?”

Peter blinks and realizes that his elbow is covered in curry.

“Uh,” he says, yanking it off the table and hurriedly wiping it with a napkin. “Um, right. Thanks. I will.”

Steve seems satisfied, going back to his own plate of food.

 _“Do_ get an autograph if you can,” Bucky adds, reaching for his curry-soaked pita bread again.

Steve snorts.

* * *

 

Peter refuses to call them dates, even though each of them ends with Deadpool blowing him a kiss and he thinks he’s heard enough about his eyes to never want to look at them in the mirror again. He loses track of how many times they’ve met after the manager at King Kone actually memorizes their ice cream order- peanut butter base, peanut butter cup ice cream, extra fudge sauce.

Somewhere along the way, he learns that Deadpool is thirty-six, and the regenerative healing puts him physically at a solid 25 or so. (He's not sure why his brain files that last part away, but once it does, he knows he's never going to forget it.) A little further along, Peter gets sick of calling him ‘Deadpool’, and after Deadpool flatly rejects ‘Pool’, he sticks with ‘D’. It’s short and sweet and it lends itself to a variety of dick jokes- _all_ of which Deadpool takes advantage of.

It’s a little frightening, whenever Peter stops and thinks about it. And it’s the fright, really, that keeps his guts on edge, keeps his mind alert, keeps him _alive._ It’s become an addiction.

He’s never had a friend like this before, not really. Deadpool’s not like the other kids at school. Peter can’t just see him for a couple hours, forget about him, and then see him again the next day. He doesn’t have a set schedule with Deadpool.

He doesn’t want to call it an obligation. But that’s what it is, a little. It takes effort to keep this thing going between them, whatever the hell it is. Is it possible to be friends with a mercenary?

Whatever it is, Peter spends some nights lying awake wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

He knows it’s not really something to worry about. If he doesn’t want to see Deadpool, then he can just avoid him. And if Deadpool comes after him, well. He’s got two super soldier fathers and an extended family of Avengers. Peter thinks he’s probably safe. And besides, he’s pretty sure that even if he dropped contact, Deadpool wouldn’t take it as grounds for murder.

Though Peter knows by now that it’s easy to misjudge what Deadpool considers ‘grounds for murder.’

Somewhere along the way, they swap numbers.

Peter spends the better part of his classes glancing down at his phone, waiting for Deadpool to shoot him a nonsensical string of emojis or a new pun involving spiders.

(The best one so far involves the phrase ‘on the web.’)

(Peter will never admit he laughed.)

But what strikes him as odd isn’t the flirting. He’s used to the flirting by now. No, what strikes him as odd is the way Deadpool _almost_ flirts with him.

Sure, he’ll call Peter cute every day of the week, and compliment him on his ass, and say his voice is gorgeous or his eyes are beautiful- even though he’s never actually seen Peter’s face- but something about it just feels off. Like there’s a piece missing. Like this is just routine. Peter gets the feeling that Deadpool is very, very used to this kind of flirting.

When he realizes, it makes his gut sink a little.

Because this is new and exciting, this is someone talking to him in a way he’s never been talked to before. He feels so goddamn special whenever Deadpool says ‘cute’, even if he scoffs and looks away every time. But to know that it’s not really because of him, to know that it’s just the way Deadpool talks…

There’s a piece missing. Peter can feel it.

It’s like an extra spider-sense. He can tell that Deadpool wants him, but Deadpool doesn’t _want_ him. They’re friends now- that’s still weird to say- but there’s just. There’s something _missing._

And somewhere along the way, Peter realizes that halfhearted flirting isn’t enough.

* * *

“So who’s the blondie?” Deadpool asks, stealing the maraschino cherry off the top of the ice cream dish as usual. He bites it in half, and bright red juice splatters onto the table.

“Who?” Peter asks, reaching for his spoon.

“Blondie. Short, ponytail. She’s got the purple hoodie.”

“I- you mean Gwen?” Peter scoops out a large chunk of half frozen peanut butter. And then he realizes the weight of what Deadpool's just said. “Have you been watching me?”

“Baby boy, I’m always watching you,” Deadpool says, and winks.

It strikes Peter that the thought of someone following him frequently enough to recognize his classmates should probably concern him- or at the very least, bother him. But somehow it doesn’t. Somehow, impossibly, a little flicker of warmth lights up behind his chest and his heart beats just a little faster. It doesn't even occur to him to be surprised that Deadpool's been watching him enough to know who he is outside of his costume. He can't bring himself to panic about it. It almost seems natural. After all, Deadpool is quickly becoming Peter's best friend, technically. Peter doubts that Deadpool would have much use for blabbing about Peter's identity to the rest of the world. Peter's not a hot-shot superhero yet, he doesn't have a laundry list of enemies. Deadpool probably has much more important problems to worry about than to care, really, about who Peter is. Peter wonders absently if Deadpool knows anything else about him. Does he know Peter's name? (Does he know Peter's been lying through his teeth?)

Part of him makes the decision, now, to trust Deadpool, and to trust him unconditionally. It's a part of him that he knows his parents would disapprove of, because it's based solely on gut feeling without a shred of logic, but, well. His parents would be hypocrites to shame him for going with his gut. So he pushes the worry aside and clears his throat.

“Well," he says, "um, that’s Gwen.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Sort of.” They’d been partners last quarter, and Gwen’s going to be in his chemistry class next quarter. Peter’s got his fingers crossed that she agrees to work with him again.

“She’s pretty,” Deadpool says.

“Um,” Peter says.

“Not as pretty as you, obviously,” Deadpool adds. “But I can see the appeal.”

“Are you,” Peter says slowly. “Are you asking me if we’re together?”

“I hope you know I don’t like to share,” Deadpool purrs.

“Because we’re not,” Peter says, perhaps a little too defensively. “At all.”

Deadpool swipes his spoon through the tuft of whipped cream and brings it to his lips.

His tongue slides over the top, not even brushing the spoon as it scoops up the top half of cream. He slips it back between his lips, but the cream touches his top lip before disappearing, leaving a little white smear.

Peter stares.

Deadpool slowly, deliberately, slides his tongue back up over his lip, licking the cream off-

Something touches Peter’s calf and he jumps a mile out of his seat. Deadpool shoves the spoon into his mouth and smirks around it. Peter looks down and sees one of Deadpool’s boots brushing up against his shin.

“Have I ever told you you’re cute when you blush?”

The mask really doesn’t help with the burning sensation on Peter’s cheeks. And the red probably doesn’t help, either. He would comment that the mask is only rolled up to his nose and Deadpool really shouldn’t be able to see him blushing, but he knows that his face is pink from his ears to his chin.

He must take too long to answer, because Deadpool keeps going.

“Ex?”

“What?”

“Is she your ex?”

“No!” Peter hears himself shout, without thinking. He looks around, embarrassed, and lowers his voice. “I’ve actually, um. Never been with anyone. Before.”

“Never dated?” Deadpool repeats. “Or never _been with?”_

Peter blinks. “Are you asking me if I’m a virgin?”

Deadpool’s eyes seem to sparkle with mischief, even under his mask. “Maybe.”

There’s a single moment, in which a part of Peter’s brain says that no, telling a thirty-six-year-old man who keeps calling him cute whether or not he’s a virgin is a _bad idea._

“Yeah,” he hears himself say, and the little part of his brain screams. “Yeah. I am.”

“Oh,” Deadpool says. _“Oh.”_

The sound is low in his throat and seems to be something more on par with Steve’s chicken-tikka-voice. Peter feels a little shot of _something_ slip down his spine, and his right thigh twitches. He scoots his legs closer together, nervously.

“Is that, um,” he says. “Bad?”

“Baby boy,” Deadpool purrs, “you are _so_ lucky you’re not a _baby_ boy.”

The panic bubbles up again, this time accompanied by a faint twinge of guilt.

“Oh, yeah?” he says, throat suddenly dry. “Why’s that?”

“Do you want to know a secret?”

“Sure,” Peter says, heart thudding in his chest.

Deadpool blinks. His eyes slide back to the dull white Peter’s so used to, the sparkle gone.

“Maybe I’ll tell you later,” he hums, and plucks the cherry out of the bottom of the ice cream dish. “If you’re _really_ lucky.”

Peter blinks, and the missing puzzle piece snaps into place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theres porn in the next part i swear  
> just hang on


	3. (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ every comment mentioning going to hell:  
> don't worry i rented a party bus and everyone's invited

Peter’s not an idiot.

He knows what kind of checklist Deadpool’s been marking off.

He is small and pretty and innocent, and he thinks he knows what the final nail in the coffin is going to be.

Which leaves the choice up to him.

Being sixteen, Peter’s never had an enormous amount of choice in his life. The biggest decision he’s made in the past few years had been where to take his college classes. And as the community colleges around the area were all pretty much the same, it had boiled down to which one would be easiest to get to, had a nice campus, and was closest to the best restaurants.

He doesn’t work yet, so he doesn’t pay for groceries. He doesn’t choose what he’s going to have for dinner, what he’s going to eat for breakfast, or what kinds of foods he wants to try.

He chooses which bus route he’s going to take, but he doesn’t choose what time.

Even his clothes aren’t really up to him. It’s not like he’s paid for anything himself. And when his parents had stopped washing his clothes for him, he’d just picked up the same habit- rotating through a basic formula of shirts, flannels, and jeans and washing them all once a week.

So if this is his choice, then he’s going to goddamn make it.

* * *

Deadpool lives in a shitty little apartment in the bottom of The Bronx, almost hidden away behind the unkempt bushes and vines scrambling up the chain link fence. It’s small, out of the way. Pretty much ideal for anyone who’s not looking to be found.

He scales the fence without trouble and, after brushing off the leaves that had stuck to his jacket, crawls through the brush towards the apartment. There’s a set of steps leading down below ground level towards a little door- what Peter can only assume is the main door. He hasn’t been by too many apartments, having spent most of his life either in his parents’ massive house or in Stark’s extravagant tower.

As quietly as he can, he tiptoes down the steps and pauses by the door, listening intently. With his spider-sense enhanced hearing, he can usually get a good impression of voices behind closed doors- for better or for worse- but it doesn’t sound like anyone’s inside now.

He wonders what to do. On one hand, he feels like it would be crossing a line to break into Deadpool’s apartment and wait for him. But on the other hand, he doesn’t really want to just wait out here until Deadpool gets back. And if he’s being honest with himself, breaking into an apartment does seem kind of like Deadpool’s style.

Another choice made, Peter scales the side of the building and heads for the windows.

Two of them are locked, but the third isn’t. He shimmies it open and crawls inside, taking care not to knock anything over. It’s hard- there isn’t a clear surface in the entire room. Every inch is covered with _something,_ whether it’s a book, a wrapper, old food, knickknacks, clothes, or something that looks suspiciously like a stuffed unicorn.

Peter wonders if going into Deadpool’s bedroom would be taking it a step too far, but he only wonders for a minute before knowing what his decision’s going to be.

The door swings open with a brush of his fingers.

Compared to the rest of his apartment, Deadpool’s bedroom is relatively neat. There are shelves with books stacked, some upright, some on their sides.

All in all, he’s a little disappointed. Considering Deadpool’s nature, he’d expected something a bit more eccentric. Maybe a display of weapons somewhere. Maybe a collection of personal trophies. Newspaper articles pasted onto the walls, tied together with string. But no, Deadpool appears to live in a perfectly normal apartment, albeit a little messily.

There are only a few picture frames around the whole place. The first, Peter finds in the living room. It’s nearly buried under magazines and old newspapers, and the frame and picture are both covered in a neat layer of dust.

He sets the magazines aside carefully, and picks up the frame to see the picture.

Smiling at him are two men. One of them has long blonde hair to his shoulders, thick black rimmed glasses, and a heavy layer of stubble. The man beside him is- there’s no other way to put it- breathtakingly beautiful. Peter stares at the photo, at the laugh lines on the man’s forehead, the eyebrows that curve over his eyes just so, the jawline, the eyes, the mouth.

He puts the photo down.

The second photo, he finds tucked away in the bookshelf. It’s brighter than the first photo, likely because it hasn’t been faded by the sun. It takes Peter a few tries to tug it out of the book it’s been squeezed into, and he holds it carefully when he’s got it out.

It’s the same gorgeous man from the first photo, with a woman at his side. She’s pretty too, Peter thinks to himself. He checks on the back, but the photo doesn’t have a date.

Carefully, he puts the photo back between the books.

The last picture he finds is in the bathroom.

Peter nearly drops it when he realizes what it is.

Framed beautifully in the picture is a man’s face. Well, half of a man’s face. The ears and the outside are all intact, but it’s painfully obvious that the man, whoever he is, has been shot at point blank range. He turns the photo over, fighting the urge to vomit, and sees that this photo does have a date.

If he’s deciphering Deadpool’s handwriting correctly, it looks like the photo was taken about five years ago.

 _Francis,_ the caption reads. The ‘I’ is dotted with a heart. Peter shoves the photo back where he found it, wedged under the head of the toilet seat.

Maybe, he thinks, this was a bad idea. Maybe he should just go back home now, while he has the chance. After all, Deadpool probably isn’t going to much like the fact that Peter’s just broken into his apartment. Maybe the smart decision is to turn his back on this and leave.

The small, barely-there part of his brain rejoices.

Peter takes a few minutes to rearrange the things around the apartment that he’s overturned. He hopes Deadpool will be too messy to notice the changes.

 _It’s easy to underestimate him,_ he remembers his father saying, and his gut twists with worry.

He drops down from the window and lands on his hands and knees, crouching in the moss-covered alleyway.

“Well, well, _well,”_ a voice crows from behind him, and Peter freezes.

Peter hears footsteps crunching the pavement, slowly walking closer. He knows he can’t bolt, he’s not nearly fast enough. Something is keeping his feet rooted to the spot, something is keeping him from turning around and explaining himself.

“Someone was feeling adventurous,” Deadpool hums. “Well? What’d you think? Classy, right?” Before Peter can answer, there’s a faint _shing,_ and then both of Deadpool’s katanas are crossed around his throat, just brushing the skin. “You better say it’s classy.”

Peter looks, cross-eyed, down at the blades. He can just make out his reflection in the edges, scared and petrified.

“I just,” he says. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

Deadpool blinks.

“Well, he _llo_ , baby boy.”

The katanas disappear, and Deadpool hops to his front, giddy and excited.

“I should be ashamed of myself,” he says, crossing his arms and looking Peter very obviously up and down. “How could I have mistaken that little bubblebutt for anyone else?”

Peter flushes red.

“Come on in,” Deadpool says, reaching out for Peter’s arm. He leads Peter around the back and down to the front door, then unlocks it with his free hand and pushes Peter inside. “You just couldn’t stay away from me, could you?” He closes the door behind him, still talking in rapid-fire. “I mean, I’ve seen you following me home a few times, but I didn’t think you’d ever have the courage to stop by and say hi- what a wonderful surprise-”

“I’m sixteen.”

Deadpool stops short. His hand is clenched around the handle, holding the door shut.

Peter can’t see his eyes, but he looks like he’s looking very intently at the woodgrain pattern around the peephole. For five long, full seconds, neither of them speak. And then.

“You shouldn’t have told me that.”

His voice sends a jolt of electricity down Peter’s spine. It’s low, nearly a growl, and it feels restrained. Like Deadpool’s just barely holding back from doing _something,_ from letting go. The hand on the door handle is clenched tightly, fingers shaking.

“D,” Peter starts. “D, listen-”

“Oh, you really, _really_ shouldn’t have told me that.”

Peter hugs his arms around his chest, suddenly feeling very small.

“D,” Peter says again.

“You should go,” Deadpool says. “Now. Go Now.” He finally turns to look at Peter, and his mask is strangely slack, devoid of emotion. “Before you regret it.”

“I don’t regret it,” Peter says firmly, staying where he is.

“You have thirty seconds to get out of here,” Deadpool says, looking straight at Peter. “Get out, and don’t come back.”

Peter shifts his arms so that they’re folded instead.

“No,” he says. “No, I came here because I wanted to tell you the truth. Because I want you to trust me.”

“Like it’s got anything to do with _trust,”_ Deadpool spits.

“I know what I want,” Peter says, a little louder. “Give me a chance.”

“You know what you want,” Deadpool agrees, “but you don’t know what you’re asking for, right now.”

“Maybe that’s true,” Peter concedes. “But. But I know that I want _something,_ and I know that you’re the only one who’s going to give it to me. And I want… this.”

It’s a bold statement, considering that he doesn’t know what exactly ‘this’ is.

He steps forward.

“Please,” he says.

Deadpool shudders. “Say that again.”

Peter lets a tiny smile cross his lips. “That’s your kink, isn’t it? When I say please?”

Deadpool’s eyes narrow. “Do you want to know a secret?”

Peter’s hard stare doesn’t falter.

In one single movement, they’re switched. Deadpool’s hands are on Peter’s shoulders, and he’s being walked back one, two, three steps until he _smacks_ into the door, the back of his head landing on the wood with a dull sound that makes his temples ache. They’re close now, they’re so close-

Deadpool tugs his mask up to his nose and closes the last few inches between them, until his lips are barely brushing Peter’s ear.

“I’m one of those guys your daddies always warned you about. One of those sick, filthy perverts who gets off to cute little pretty boys _begging them on their knees.”_

Peter kisses him.

Something _slams_ down right beside his face. He hears it slide across the wood towards him, and then a hand is caressing his cheek, thumb sliding down and digging into the baby fat that still hasn’t worn off. Something punches him in the gut, and he realizes belatedly that it’s Deadpool’s other hand. Without warning, it crawls down to the edge of his shirt and creeps up underneath. Peter shivers as the smooth fabric of Deadpool’s gloves traces over his skin.

He’s not terrible at kissing- Deadpool seems to know what he’s doing, so Peter just follows along as best he can manage. There’s a lot more tongue than he’s expecting, but Deadpool doesn’t seem to mind, so he supposes it’s fine. He’s never actually kissed anyone before- not like this, certainly- so he tries to catalogue every sensation he can grip his mind onto.

Two of the gloved fingers find his right nipple and pinch, hard. He yelps into Deadpool’s mouth, legs buckling, and slides down an inch on the door.

Deadpool pulls off, tongue lingering for a split second in Peter’s mouth. A trail of spit stretches from one mouth to the other, until Deadpool wipes his lips with the hand that had been on Peter’s cheek, and it’s gone. He presses the hand back, smearing spit just below Peter’s eye. He feels it, cold and wet on his skin, and shivers again.

“What,” he breathes, unable to tear his eyes away from Deadpool’s mouth. “What do you want me to call you?”

Deadpool hesitates for a fraction of a second.

“Wade,” he says, and kisses Peter again.

It seems to fit him.

This kiss is different. It’s full of the same nervous frantic energy as the first, but Peter knows a little more what he’s doing, now. He sucks Wade’s tongue into his mouth and runs his own alongside it, giving a soft hum in his throat. Their top teeth click together- _ow-_ and Wade’s grip on his face tightens. Two of his gloved fingers are tucked up in the scruff of Peter’s hair, and they _pull._ The thumb in his cheek digs in- a small part of Peter hopes that it’s not going to bruise, but a much bigger part of him just _doesn’t care-_ and he feels his eyes start to prickle at the edges, tears threatening to leak out.

Peter’s brain replays the words _on their knees_ in vivid clarity, and he knows what he’s going to do.

He gives one last hard suck on Wade’s tongue, pulls off, and plants a wet kiss to his jawline. At least, he thinks it’s a kiss. His lips definitely make contact.

“What,” Wade says, but Peter’s already halfway down, knees bent. “Oh,” he says. “Oh. Baby _boy.”_

Helpfully, Peter’s brain nudges him again, muttering the word _begging_ a couple times over. He forces himself to breathe as he feels his legs fold completely, the back of his heels digging into his ass. He’s level, now, nose primed and pointing directly between Wade’s legs. His hands reach out almost unconsciously, fingers wrapping around Wade’s thighs. They’re so much bigger than Peter’s, and probably ten times as strong. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathes.

He looks up as he opens them, staring directly at Wade.

“Please?” he says again, letting his hands drift up. His thumbs brush one another as they meet in the middle, tucked under the ‘V’ of Wade’s legs. His fingers splay over the expanse of Wade’s hips, digging into the rough fabric of his costume.

“You little-” Wade growls. Peter knows there’s a pun in there somewhere about him being little, but this isn’t quite the time for it.

The hand in Peter’s hair stays where it is, but the other one dives down to the leather belt that seems to hold the supersuit around Wade’s body. Peter hears the _clink_ of the belt, the rough slide of the leather, and the ripple of whatever magic fabric the suit is made of as Wade fumbles with one hand, trying to get it off.

Peter slides his right hand under Wade’s. Wade freezes. The hand in Peter’s hair tightens, and the hand over his own falls slack. Peter adds his left hand in and undoes the thick buckle- the entire bottom half of Wade’s costume sags a little as he finally gets it undone, sliding the leather through the loops.

“Tease,” Wade mutters, as Peter slowly pulls the waistband of his costume down, down, down.

He doesn’t have time to look. The hand in his hair wrenches him forward before he can think more than the words _‘Commando? Really?’_ and when he sucks in a breath, it’s hot, heavy, and full of musk. His tongue darts out between his lips, but-

Wade shoves him off and lets go, looking down at him. The apartment is lit just enough to make out the expression on his face- faintly amused- as he tugs off his gloves.

“Not yet,” Wade says. “Not quite yet.”

Peter doesn’t have time to manage a “please”, or to even begin to ask for what he wants- or to even begin to think about _what,_ exactly, he wants- before Wade’s hand is back in his hair, shoving his head against the door. It hurts, and he thinks he can feel the beginnings of a bruise on the base of his skull, but he doesn’t care, god, he just _doesn’t care._

His lips fall open in a silent ‘O’ as his skull smacks against the wood, and before he can close them again, three fingers shove past, stuffing themselves into his mouth. He chokes.

“Suck,” he thinks he hears Wade say. “Show me what that pretty little tongue of yours can do.”

Peter tries, he really tries, but the tips of Wade’s fingers keep brushing the back of his throat, and ever few seconds he gags again, whole body jerking. Feebly, he tries to stroke his tongue along the side of Wade’s fingers, tries to do _something._ He chokes again, and spit edges out around the corners of his mouth.

Wade pulls two fingers out, leaving his index. He uses the others to edge Peter’s mouth open.

“Look at that,” he purrs. “So pretty and pink. I bet this is the first time you’ve ever tasted anyone else, isn’t it?”

Peter makes a show of laving his tongue around Wade’s finger, coating it with as much spit as he can. It drips down the sides of his chin and drops to his floor. Some lands on the carpet, some lands on his own knees. Wade adds the second and third fingers back in, and Peter closes his lips around them, suckling.

“I’m going to need a ‘yes’, baby boy,” Wade says. And for one crazy moment, Peter thinks he means a ‘yes, keep going’ kind of ‘yes.’ But then he remembers whose fingers are in his mouth.

He hums out an agreeing sound, trying to pull Wade’s fingers down into his throat.

“How does it feel?” Wade asks, wiggling the tips. Peter chokes again, but keeps as still as he can. “Good?”

Peter slides his tongue in a circle as a ‘yes.’

“Oh, baby boy. It’s about to feel so much better.”

In an instant, the fingers are gone. Peter gasps in a breath, throat feeling strangely empty. Before he can stop himself, a small, needy whine leaves his throat.

“Don’t you worry,” Wade coos. “Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

Something must happen in the next second, because there has to be a step between staring up at Wade and being shoved against the door, but Peter has no idea what it is. He blinks, and something slides past his lips, and his head collides with the door once more, harder still now.

It’s salty, is his first thought. It’s warm, is his second. It’s _big,_ is his third.

Remembering the fingers, he forces himself to relax. It won’t do either of them good if he tenses up and bites.

“That’s it,” he hears Wade say. “That’s it, take it, take it…”

He can’t breathe. Wade’s cock is lodged solidly in his mouth, pushing against the tip of his throat, and there’s just no _space._ His tongue works furiously, trying to get out of the way, he tries to pull back but there’s nowhere to go, the door is digging into his skull, he can barely open his eyes to look up at Wade, trying to say something without words because he can’t _speak-_

Wade pulls out.

Peter sucks in a breath. Spit trails in heavy lines from his lips to the tip of Wade’s cock, dripping down onto the floor, onto Peter’s knees, spit and something else, and Peter opens his mouth to say something-

Wade shoves back in again with a hoarse cry, this time tugging at Peter’s hair. Peter closes his eyes and feels as Wade’s cock slides right past the tip of his throat as if it was meant to fit. His nose presses up against the little curl of hair on Wade’s pelvis, and for one insane moment, he thinks he could stay like this forever.

He works his throat, trying to swallow around Wade, trying to do _something._ His tongue’s no help, it’s pinned solidly to the bottom of his mouth, useless. He feels his throat trying to choke again and tries to ignore it- but every time his throat spasms and he feels another rush of saliva, Wade jerks against him, digging deeper.

Peter presses his nose down against Wade’s pelvis, feeling the enormous weight of his cock slide around inside his throat, and tries to make small, lazy little movements.

“Fuck,” he hears Wade breathe. “Oh, fuck yes, baby boy, fuck-”

And then Wade is pulling out and slamming back in before Peter has time to process either movement. The door whacks again and again onto his skull, but he barely notices. Wade’s breathing has turned from silent to pants to one long, low growl that rises and falls with every thrust. Peter’s jaw can’t physically open any more than this- the edges of his lips start to sting a bit, as spit still leaks out.

“Baby _boy,”_ Wade purrs, and slams forward one more time. Peter gags, eyes squeezed shut, and goes limp as Wade goes rigid. The fingers in his hair pull hard enough to hurt, as Wade shudders against him and comes down his throat.

He feels it- he _feels it-_ sliding down the back of his throat. He can’t even taste it on his tongue. He chokes again and again, throat panicking, until his chest is sick of heaving and he’s too sore to try to pull back anymore.

A few tense seconds pass, and then Wade lets out a breath. The fingers in Peter’s hair lose their grip, and Peter lets his head fall back against the door, exhausted.

Wade slides his cock out of Peter’s mouth, leaving a little trail of come on his tongue. Peter shivers as he feels the head slip over his tongue, and a little part of him doesn’t want to close his mouth. But he does. He swirls his tongue around experimentally, trying to get used to the taste. His first instinct is that it’s foul, but there’s something underneath. It tastes a bit like Wade smells- hot and heavy and that strange musk.

He’s still on his knees, his ass sat back against his heels, but he doesn’t think he has the energy to stand back up.

Luckily, Wade seems to know what to do. He hoists Peter up under the arms and gets him on his feet. Peter sways on the spot, but Wade holds him upright. It’s not hard; Peter weighs about a hundred pounds on a good week.

“Let’s get a good look at you,” Wade murmurs, and Peter feels his feet stumbling forward towards the middle of the room. They keep going, past the couch and kitchen, until he’s being led through a door and into what he can only assume is Deadpool’s bedroom. Yes, he thinks, looking at the bookshelves and recognizing them, this is his bedroom.

Somehow his shirt comes up off his shoulders before he hits the mattress, but he doesn’t care how.

“Pretty, pretty,” Wade breathes, already plastering his hands down over Peter’s chest. Peter doesn’t understand how his nipples can really be that sensitive- they’re not like breasts, or anything, right?- but when Wade’s fingers pinch his right nipple, he jerks on the mattress, a breath knocked out of his lungs.

“That’s good?” Wade hums, taking the other nipple in his other hand and twisting them both. Peter squirms, face going red. It’s good, it’s good, but it’s not _enough._ His legs tuck up, feet pedaling against the sheets. Wade seems to get the idea.

“Patience, baby boy,” he says. “Don’t you worry. Don’t you _worry.”_

Peter lets out a breath as fingers reach his hips, tuck under the waistband of his jeans, and slide them down slowly, so slowly. It’s like he’s being unwrapped, like he’s a present on display. His cock- hard and ready- slaps up against his stomach. It’s leaking like a tap set on low, precome already pooling on his stomach.

Wade’s mouth falls open at the sight of it and he forgets Peter’s jeans. Peter tries to kick them off himself, and they slide off the end of the bed. He looks away, face going nearly maroon- no one’s ever, _ever_ seen him like this before. Wade looks like he’s about to eat Peter alive.

And that’s precisely what he does.

Peter shouts as Wade kneels down at the end of the bed and licks a hot stripe from the base of his cock to the tip, swirls his tongue around the head, and swallows him down in one swift movement. Peter’s toes curl- his left foot catches on the sheets. Wade bobs his head a few times before pulling off and looking down at his handiwork.

“God,” he murmurs, reaching out and splaying his fingers over Peter’s bony hips, spreading his legs apart. “Look at you, you’re like a little peach, just waiting for me. So pink and round and ripe.”

He gives Peter’s cock another lick.

“Juicy and sweet,” he says. Peter whimpers. “But I think I’ll savor you.”

He brings his mouth down over Peter’s cock again, tongue doing absolutely _magical_ things, as his right hand swipes up on Peter’s stomach to scoop up a fair amount of precome. He slicks up three of his fingers up and brings them down, trailing over Peter’s hip, past his cock, and down, down-

Peter yelps as Wade brushes his rim, index finger teasing inside. Wade doesn’t pull off and whisper _‘relax’,_ doesn’t slow down, he just presses harder and harder until it pushes past, until the tip of his finger slips in. Peter can’t help it, he clenches down around Wade’s finger, unable to keep his head up anymore. He just lets it fall back against the mattress, closes his eyes, and focuses on his breathing.

Wade’s finger wriggles for a few moments before Peter feels the tip of a second finger teasing in around the edge of the first. He opens his mouth, breathing hard, and tries- _forces-_ himself to relax. Wade makes a happy little sound around his cock- and _that_ sends another wave of arousal down Peter’s spine- and slides the second finger in against the first.

Two’s company, Peter thinks to himself, as Wade begins to scissor his fingers. His rim starts to burn, just a little, but there’s a dull ache of pleasure that he can’t deny. He feels open, almost, despite being so full.

Wade must get tired of scissoring after a minute or so, because he suddenly stops wiggling his fingers and settles them together. Then he presses forward- so much that it hurts, just a little- almost as if he’s searching for something-

“Oh- _god-”_

Peter tries to say something else, something else besides the “oh” that his mouth is so set on, but he can’t. He can’t make his mouth say “I’m”, he can’t reach down and tap Wade on the shoulder, he can’t do anything, anything but-

He comes almost silently. His chest feels like it’s on fire, sucking in air and pounding it back out again. He arches up off the mattress, ass clenching as tight as it can around Wade’s fingers, and he comes and comes, into Wade’s mouth.

He starts to feel his head go fuzzy, just a little, as his brain begins losing oxygen. His back can’t take the strain anymore and he collapses down onto the bed, hands and arms trembling. His right leg twitches as Wade pulls off, pulls out, and he cracks his eyes open to see Wade running his tongue over his lips.

Wade leans forward and presses a fond kiss to the tip of his spent cock, then gives it another few licks for good measure.

Peter’s enough of a teenager that he’s almost ready to go again, but it almost hurts, he’s so sensitive. He whines, jerking against the mattress.

“Shhh, shh,” Wade coos, but he doesn’t stop pressing kisses over Peter’s cock. It’s slick with spit and precome- and he realizes that Wade must have swallowed him down, just like Peter had. He whimpers as Wade sinks his lips back down over his cock again, lazily.

“Please,” he pants. “Please, I can’t- I-”

Wade gives a low hum, sending a rough vibration from the tip of his cock all the way up his spine. Peter clenches his fists around the sheets and-

He comes again. This time he can see, he watches as Wade sucks once more and pulls, off, watches as his last little dribble of come drops down onto Wade’s chin, watches as Wade parts his lips and slides his tongue over his bottom lip, trying to lap it up. Peter can see there’s already a pool of come on his tongue, and he almost, _almost_ comes for a third time just from the sight of it. Instead, he closes his eyes.

Wade makes a few wet, sloppy sounds, and then the bed dips beside Peter and a hand slides over his stomach, pulling him close. Wade's fingers curl over the light little hairs just below his navel, and if Peter imagines hard enough, he can almost believe it's being done lovingly. 

What is he doing? What is he  _doing?_ He's lying in Deadpool's bed, his mouth tastes like something he doesn't want to think about, and his legs are sticking to one another. The room smells like sweat and come, and he can't stop replaying the sight of his cock disappearing into Wade's mouth. He's never stayed over at anyone else's house before- no birthday parties, no sleepovers, no friends. 

Peter thinks about what his parents said, about what they’d say if they could see him now. He thinks about what he’s going to do when he wakes up- because sleeping seems like the only option right now- and thinks about what he’s going to say to them- not only to his parents, but to Wade.

Wade nuzzles his nose into Peter’s shoulder, lips closing over his neck. He suckles lazily, seemingly content.

Peter closes his eyes and decides.


	4. (smut)

“God, your breath is terrible in the morning.”

Bucky snorts. “You love it, though.”

“Never said I didn’t.”

The sunlight hasn’t quite filtered in through the blinds yet, but both Bucky and Steve can feel the room starting to warm up. With two super-soldier bodies generating enough heat to render them furnaces, they keep the windows open and the fans on most nights. The sun has become a sort of mutual enemy for them both.

Bucky rolls over onto his back, arching up off the bed in a stretch. He hears the familiar _whirr_ of his arm warming up as his brain comes fully back online, and he flexes the fingers of his left hand lazily. Steve tries to reach over to touch them, but his hand doesn’t make it all the way. Giving up, he lets it drop onto Bucky’s chest.

“You know,” Bucky says. “For a Captain, you sure ain’t a morning person.”

Steve buries his face into the side of Bucky’s chest, mumbling, “shuddup.”

“Come on,” Bucky says, threading his fingers into Steve’s hair and messing it up. Steve screws up his eyes. “Come on, let’s get you breakfast before you pass out.”

“M’ not gonna pass out.”

“Oh, yes you will. The last time you slept past breakfast and tried to exercise, I had to carry you home. So don’t tell me you won’t pass out- because I know for a _fact_ that you will.”

“All right, all _right,_ not with the shouting voice,” Steve grumbles, but he still curls up against Bucky, even as Bucky makes to get out of bed. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, but Steve clings to his chest.

“Don’t make me carry you,” Bucky warns. Steve gives a delighted _humm._ “I mean it,” Bucky says. “What’s Peter going to think if he sees me carrying you bridal-style into the kitchen? Kid’s already squeamish whenever I kiss you, I dunno if his fragile little heart could take the shock.”

“He’s bound to realize we’re in love sometime,” Steve says, shrugging. “Besides. He’ll be asleep until two. S’ the weekend, you know what he’s like.”

Bucky considers this.

Steve gives an almighty laugh as Bucky hoists him up out of bed, and honest-to-god wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck, like he’s some swooning maiden. They chuckle and snort all the way from the bedroom to the kitchen, and when Bucky sets him down in the chair by the dining room table, Steve presses a hand to his chest like he’s been struck.

“Abandoning me?” He bats his eyes.

Bucky gives him a look. “I would never.”

Steve gives him a _look._

“All right,” Bucky amends. “I would never, _now.”_

Steve smiles.

Bucky stretches his arms behind his back, and hears his shoulder plate buzz excitedly. It’s been a good long while since he’s used the arm for much else than, well, an arm. Maybe he should follow Steve over to that gym of his, sometime. What a pair they’d make.

But not today. Maybe tomorrow. After all, today is Saturday.

“You know what,” he says. “You know what, go get Peter.”

Steve blinks.

“It’s Saturday,” Bucky says, and reaches into the kitchen drawer. He rummages around- with his left hand, so he doesn’t have to worry about grabbing a knife by the wrong end- and tugs out a metal spatula. “I’m gonna make pancakes.”

“Only if you make them with blueberries this time, not with chocolate,” Steve says, pointing a finger accusingly at Bucky. “You know that’s too much sugar for breakfast.”

“Pancakes without chocolate ain’t pancakes,” Bucky says firmly. “I’ll make yours with blueberries, you health nut dumbass.”

“Your insults need a little work, I think my Captain America boxers just ran for cover.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Have you been watching Disney movies without me?”

Steve slides out of his chair, heading for Peter’s room, and looks over his shoulder. “Have _you?”_

Before Bucky can answer, he ducks around the corner and heads down the hallway, a dopey smile on his face. It’s Saturday. They have nothing to do. Bucky is making pancakes in the kitchen, and Peter is sleeping in his bedroom.

For all the pitfalls in his life, for all the accidents and the losses and the tragedies, he has to thank the world for this morning. Because he has Bucky, and he has Peter, and _god,_ he couldn’t ask for more. He wishes he could go back in time to the moment when Sam had asked him _what makes you happy,_ and answer him that this, this makes him happy. Bucky makes him happy. Peter makes him happy. Chocolate chip unhealthy pancakes make him happy.

He smiles as he imagines what the look on Sam’s face might have been, had he actually answered like that.

Peter’s door is shut, as it always is in the mornings. Steve looks down and frowns as he sees there’s nothing blocking the crack under the door.

Peter usually takes care to soundproof his room as much as he can- both because of his advanced hearing skills, thanks to his spider-abilities, and because he’s sixteen now. Steve remembers being sixteen.

“Peter,” he says, very quietly. Waking Peter up with loud noises is, Steve has learned, a Bad Idea. “You awake?”

No answer. But Steve hadn’t been expecting one, anyway. He yawns to himself, and gives the door a small knock. When nothing happens, he grabs the handle and turns it.

Or at least, he tries to turn it.

The handle stays rigidly in place. Frowning, Steve tries to move it again. But there’s no mistaking it, Peter’s locked the door. Steve frowns again, considering the options. It’s entirely possible that Peter had locked his room last night, not wanting Steve or Bucky to barge in on him. But, if that were true, then Steve would have expected to find a locked door in the morning much, much more often. But he doesn’t, so that possibility doesn’t seem likely.

“Peter,” he says again, a little louder. “Pete, wake up.”

He presses his ear to the door and listens with all the focus his super-soldier enhanced hearing can muster. But there’s nothing. No rustling of sheets, no footsteps, no mumbled ‘go away’s.

Steve grabs the handle tight enough to dent it, twists his wrist, and breaks the handle off the door. The edge splinters onto the carpet below, and the door swings forward when he kicks it, opening up to an empty room.

Peter’s bed is half made, blankets crumpled at the base, pillows still lined up at the head. His backpack is sat on the floor by the foot of the bed, not even unzipped. His desk is messy like usual, but there’s nothing immediate on it- no drinks, no food, no open notebooks. And the window-

Peter’s window is wide open, curtains ruffling in the morning breeze.

* * *

Peter wakes to the sensation of something very warm and soft covering his face.

It takes a moment to realize the something is a pillow, another moment to realize the pillow isn’t his, and another moment to remember why the pillow isn’t his.

When he’s had his fill of moments and he’s got his bearings, he rolls over onto his back, sucking in a breath of morning air. It’s hot and humid in Deadpool’s room- in Wade’s room- and it smells like microwave food. And sex. It really, _really_ smells like sex.

Peter can’t help it. One twitch of his leg and he knows he’s hard again. He sighs to himself, turning onto his side again and looking at the prone form next to him.

Wade is fast asleep, lying on his back and hugging a pillow to his chest like it’s something precious. He hadn’t undressed last night- his mask is still half over his face, leaving his nose and mouth uncovered and free to breathe, but his torso and his arms are still clothed. His belt is somewhere on the floor, Peter thinks, and his suit pants are hitched down to his knees. Evidently pulling them back up had been too much of an effort, last night.

Which means Wade’s cock is bare to the world- bare to Peter.

Peter bites his lip as he feels his own cock twitch at the thought. He tries to send it a scolding thought down its way, but it doesn’t really work. He rolls onto his stomach and gives a tired rut into the mattress, still looking at Wade.

Because, well. He’s _right there._ And he’s lying so perfectly, like he’s on display. A few inches, that’s all Peter would need to move-

Wade’s breath hitches in his chest, and the pillow slides down the tiniest bit. Peter squints above Wade’s head and can just make out the sun behind the tree behind the bush behind the curtains. The room is pretty well shielded from the sun, but it won’t be forever. If he’s going to do this, he has to do it soon. He has to decide.

Swallowing back the fear that had driven him here in the first place, Peter pushes himself up onto his hands and knees and slowly, carefully, crawls over until he’s perpendicular with Wade, until his knees are on the edge of the bedside, feet threatening to dangle off, and his mouth-

His mouth is inches away from Wade’s cock.

It’s a little less intimidating, now that Wade isn’t awake and shoving it down his throat. Peter can see the little traces of dried spit and come on Wade’s stomach, and he shivers. He’d done that. _He’d_ done that.

He bites his lip, not sure where to begin.

Well, if Wade’s asleep, he reasons with himself, it’s probably best to go slow.

Trying to convince himself that he knows what he’s doing, he bends down and presses his tongue to the base of Wade’s cock.

Nothing happens.

He pulls off, disappointed, and tries again. This time, he drags his tongue up, stopping just short of the head, and then-

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks, and wraps his lips around the tip, trying to sink down. It’s a completely different angle than last time, and it takes him a moment to get his bearings. He can’t take Wade quite as deep like this, but that’s okay.

Wade’s cock jumps, suddenly, hitting the roof of his mouth. He slides his tongue over the head encouragingly, trying to sink a little lower, cover more ground. A little dribble of precome spreads over the tip of his tongue- ignoring the taste as best he can, Peter keeps his lips solidly wrapped around Wade’s cock, not giving up.

Wade’s hips jerk. Peter reaches out with a hand to grab them before he knows what he’s doing, which seems to trigger an even bigger movement. He bucks up into Peter’s mouth, and Peter braces himself. Sure enough, Wade’s cock tickles the back of his throat and he gags a little again.

Wade’s mouth opens and a soft, breathy little sigh leaves his throat. A moment later, and he goes still and limp, hips falling back down onto the mattress.

Gratefully, Peter pulls off and catches his breath.

Wade’s cock is at full attention now, shiny and spit slick, oozing precome up onto Wade’s stomach. Peter reaches down and gives himself a couple of strokes, because he can’t just _not._

“Did I say you could stop?”

Peter freezes.

It’s incredible how fast his heartrate jumps, how quickly he goes from riding on the edge of adrenaline to drowning in the wave of it. Panic slices through his stomach, nearly taking the wind out of him. He can feel it trying to poke out from underneath the skin, panic, even as his head starts to pound and his ears start to ring.

“Answer me,” Wade says, his voice a low croak. Peter tries to look up, to meet his eyes, but he can’t. He _can’t._ “Baby boy. Did I say you could stop?”

“No,” Peter says.

“That’s right.”

Peter jumps as he feels something brushing his hair- and relaxes as he realizes it’s just Wade’s fingers. This is nothing like the hard grip they’d had last night, no. Wade’s fingers are gentle as anything right now, brushing his hair out of his eyes- he really needs a haircut, Peter reminds himself, his hair is getting just long enough to curl a little, to get into his eyes all the goddamn time.

He allows himself a breath before diving back down again, this time with Wade’s hand to guide him. It easier, just being led. He can close his eyes and relax, he can let Wade decide how far down to go, how fast to move.

“Good boy,” Wade purrs, and Peter flushes bright red as he hears a sound come out of his throat- a high-pitched, pathetic little sound. Cracking an eye open, he sees Wade’s lips curve up in a smile. “You like that?” Wade says, giving Peter’s hair a little tug.

Peter swirls his tongue around Wade’s cock in answer.

“You like that,” Wade says, “when I tell you how good you are?”

Peter flattens his tongue, searching for the base of Wade’s cock, and drags it in a low stripe up the bottom, ending with a flick up at the head.

“Baby boy, I’m going to spoil you _rotten.”_

And with no more warning that that, Wade tugs Peter’s head down and comes. This time, his cock isn’t far enough down Peter’s throat to make it easy. This time, Peter chokes as he feels it, feels spurts of come landing on his tongue, on the back of his throat. He gives a little choking sound, trying to get more air, and Wade pulls out. One hand leaves Peter’s hair as Wade reaches down to stroke himself, and then he comes again. This time, the white little ropes land on Peter’s face- on his chin, his cheeks, his mouth.

Wade groans, reaching up and stretching his arms, and falls back onto the mattress.

“Well, good _morning,”_ he coos. “You really are adventurous, aren’t you?”

Peter gives a sheepish grin.

“Come here,” Wade says, reaching down. Peter crawls up on the mattress, hands and knees. He’s been hard since he woke up, and the prospect of Wade wanting to do something about it sends another impossible tug of arousal down his spine. He straddles Wade, looking down at him.

“Enjoying the view?” Wade teases.

“Immensely,” he says.

Wade slides his hands behind Peter’s hips, grabbing the cheeks of his ass and squeezing.

“I’ve wanted to get my hands on that bubblebutt since I first saw you,” he murmurs, as Peter rocks forward a little. His cock, which is now so hard it’s actually beginning to hurt a little, starts dribbling precome onto the front of Wade’s chest. But Peter doesn’t reach down to touch- he has a feeling Wade wouldn’t want him to.

Wade looks down at the damp spot on his chest.

“I’ll have to wash my suit, now,” he scolds, but there’s no actual anger behind his words. “Naughty boy.”

It’s horribly cheesy, like something out of a bad porno, but Peter can’t help the little shiver that goes through him at the words. Wade smiles- it’s a sharper smile this time, Peter notices, and he has a second to wonder what that means before he feels it.

Wade’s hand _smacks_ down on his ass, and he jerks forward, another little sound coming out of him.

“I really shouldn’t indulge you,” Wade hums, and gives Peter’s other ass cheek a _smack_ as well. “If I reward you every time you’re naughty, how will you ever learn?”

Peter clenches and unclenches- on Wade’s chest, his cock gushes out another dollop of precome.

“Please,” he says, rocking forward, trying to get some friction. “Please, please.”

“But I can’t resist those eyes.”

Wade grabs Peter by the hipbones and tugs him up, until his cock is inches from Wade’s mouth. It’s a little disconcerting; Wade’s mask is still half on, and Peter’s never actually seen his eyes before. It’s obvious why, but that doesn’t stop Peter from wanting. He wonders what would happen if he just reached forward and tugged the thing off.

Bad things, he decides. It’s not like Wade to deprive himself of anything good- if the mask’s still on, it’s probably still on for a reason.

“That’s right,” he hears Wade say. “That’s right, look at me. What do you want, baby boy?”

Peter whimpers as Wade’s breath brushes over the head of his cock. A bead of precome oozes out the tip, brushing Wade’s bottom lip. Wade flicks his tongue, catching it, and Peter clenches so hard he thinks he might just come.

“Please,” he says again, trying not to move his hips. “Please, Wade, please-”

“Say it,” Wade commands. “Baby boy, all you gotta do is say it. You can sit there all morning if you want, but nothin’s gonna happen unless you tell me what you want. I’m nice like that.”

Oh, and Peter knows that’s a lie. Wade hadn’t _asked him_ last night if he’d wanted his throat fucked against the door, this has nothing to do with polite consent. No, this is a kink. Through and through. And that little part of Peter flashes a tiny red flag, but he barrels it over before he can even acknowledge it.

“Please, um,” he says. “Please suck me?”

“There we go,” Wade says happily, “there we go. Good boy.”

Fuck, that shouldn’t do the things it does, but it really, _really_ does. Peter can’t help a yelp as Wade finally sucks him down, with the skill of a thousand hookers. Peter feels the littlest bit ashamed- sure, he’s still new to this whole thing, but he’d thought he was doing pretty well, all things considered. He’d made Wade come, hadn’t he? Didn’t that count for something? But no- no, whatever tricks he’d discovered in the last twelve hours are blown to shreds as Wade licks him down expertly, does things with his tongue that shouldn’t be possible, swallows him down entirely, pulls off, and starts the entire damn thing over like it’s a walk in the park.

“I,” he pants, unable to help himself from moving his hips. Wade doesn’t seem to mind- he’s evidently got a much better gag reflex than Peter does. “I- Wade, I-”

Wade pulls off- the _monster-_ and gives Peter’s head a little flick with his tongue. “You what, baby boy?”

“M’ close,” Peter says, looking down at him. He blinks, and realizes the edges of his eyes are wet with tears. “Do you want- Please, Wade-”

“Tell me,” Wade instructs. “C’mon, baby boy, tell me what you want.”

But Peter just can’t. A hundred images flash past his eyes, but he can’t put a name to a single one of them. He must show it on his face, because Wade laughs- a low, friendly laugh that settles Peter’s nerves just a little. This is why it’s so easy to trust Wade, he thinks to himself. There’s something about him that’s just so _likeable._ Trustworthy. Something in Peter’s gut just likes Wade, really likes him. And it’s that part of his gut that had brought him here in the first place, so he’s not complaining.

“What’s wrong, baby boy? Shy?”

Grateful, Peter nods. He doesn’t know why, but it’s just so hard to talk like this. He can usually match Wade wit-for-wit, but he can’t make himself say a few simple words.

“How about I give you a few choices?” Wade offers. Peter nods again. Wade grins. “Do you want me to suck you off?” He waits for a beat. “You’re the perfect size, baby boy, you slide right down my throat, you know that? I could swallow you down for hours, like sucking on a sweet little candy. I could milk you until you were dry, until you’re begging for me to stop.”

Peter quivers.

“Or,” he says, “I could eat you out instead. That cute little hole of yours was so tight- you’ve never played with it before, have you?”

Peter shakes his head.

“I could tell.” Wade trails two fingers down the cleft of Peter’s ass, tapping them teasingly at his rim. “Mm, I could lick you out for ages, until you were as wet as a girl. I wonder how many fingers you could take if you put your mind to it. Three? Four?”

The tip of his index finger presses against his rim, wiggling a little. Peter sucks in a little breath, pressing his ass down against it.

“That’s your choice, then?” Wade says. Peter bites his lip and rolls his hips again. Wade gives his finger another wiggle and it pushes just past the ring of muscle, teasing inside.

“Yes,” he says, voice cracking even on the tiny word. “Yes, Wade- please, _please-”_

Wade forces his finger up to the knuckle. “Careful, baby boy,” he growls. “You know what that does to me. You really think you’re ready?”

It’s a challenge- it’s the same kind of challenge Mr. Stark gives him when he thinks he’s being clever- _I don’t think you’re ready for the next level yet, let’s leave it at here today-_ just to egg Peter on.

And it always works.

He blinks and tilts his head down so he’s looking at Wade through his lashes.

“Please?” he says again, a little more confidence in his voice this time. The words sound stupid in his head, but he takes the chance anyway. “I’ve been a good boy, haven’t I?”

“You…” Wade stares at him, mouth slack and open for a split second, before moving.

He tugs them around so he’s pinning Peter to the bed, wrists up against the headboard. Before Peter can get a word out, Wade’s lips are attacking his chest, biting and suckling everywhere they can reach. Peter pedals his feet against the sheets, not even bothering to keep himself quiet this time as he whimpers and gasps.

Wade lets go of his wrists and slides down. Ignoring Peter’s cock completely, he reaches for Peter’s legs and hoists them up- Peter crosses his ankles around Wade’s neck. He knows he won’t have a problem holding this position for long- not with his spider powers.

Wade dives.

It’s _weird._ Peter had been just getting used to the feeling of fingers down there, but a tongue? A tongue is warm and wet and slimy and _ohgodsogood._ He can’t help but clench and unclench as Wade tries a hundred different things- swirling his tongue in a circle over his rim, dipping it inside and licking at the walls, thrusting his tongue roughly in and out, sucking at the edges of his rim- Peter loses count.

Eventually Wade settles on the tongue-thrusting thing, which is perfectly fine by Peter. With every shove of his tongue, Peter can feel his cock give an answering twitch. The pool of precome on his own stomach starts dribbling down onto his chest- if it gets close enough, he thinks, he might even be able to lap it up himself.

“Wade-” he hears himself say. Wade doesn’t stop, but he cracks an eye open- again, how the hell does he close his eyes under a mask- and looks down at Peter.

Peter swallows back his fear. “Please,” he says again. His breath hitches as Wade’s tongue thrusts particularly sharply as an answer. “More,” he clarifies. Wade raises an eyebrow- _under his mask, how does he raise an eyebrow with his mask how does that even work-_ and thrusts faster, squeezing Peter’s thighs with his hands.

Peter shakes his head. _“More,”_ he says again.

Wade pulls off. “Spoiled, aren’t you,” he murmurs. “But Daddy can’t resist spoiling his little baby boy, can he?”

And wow, that _really_ shouldn’t do things to Peter.

“What do you want me to do?” Wade asks again, and this time Peter is ready.

“I want,” he says. “I want you to take what you want.”

The tiny part of Peter’s brain that had been against this from the start gives an almighty roar, bursts into flame, and evaporates.

Wade doesn’t even answer.

He drops Peter onto the bed like a stone and spits into his hand. Before Peter can get a word out, _three_ fingers are working their way inside him, crawling deeper, wriggling madly. Wade’s not even searching for his prostate but he brushes against it with every other movement. Peter yelps- and reaches down to touch himself, unable to stop.

As expected, Wade bats his hand away impatiently. Peter had known it was coming, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself, he’d just needed-

Wade sinks down onto Peter’s cock, giving a rough _hum._ With a hoarse cry, Peter shoots off, coming so hard that the rest of the room whites out for a few moments. Wade just sucks him down, swallowing again and again and again, and Peter’s bones lose their strength. Wade pulls off with a wet slurp, licking his lips.

“How many times do you think I can make you come, baby boy?” he asks.

Peter doesn’t know. Peter doesn’t _care._ All he wants is for Wade to never, ever stop doing that with his fingers. He wriggles his ass down, trying to take them deeper.

“I think you’ve got one more in you,” Wade says, pulling his fingers out.

Peter can’t help giving a little whine of protest, because he suddenly feels so empty, so achingly empty.

“Shh,” Wade coos. “Shh, baby boy, don’t worry. Daddy’s gonna take care of you, don’t you worry.”

Peter tenses as he feels it- the slick head of Wade’s cock, nudging up against his rim.

“Oh,” he says. “Ohhgod.”

“Shh,” Wade says again. “Just relax. Daddy’s going to make you feel so, so good.”

Peter believes it. He tries his best to relax, even as he feels the head start to press in, start to spread him open.

A soft _snap-flick_ breaks him out of his haze, and he looks over and sees Wade fiddling with a bottle of lube. Impatiently, he shoves his hips down.

“Eager, aren’t we?” Slicking himself up, Wade looks fondly at Peter. And then his eyes darken. “That’s _your_ kink, isn’t it? You play the innocent card, baby boy, but you’re really just a little tart. Aren’t you?”

He presses forward again, and Peter feels the head of his cock push past his rim. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to relax, trying, trying.

“But I know what you want,” Wade murmurs, leaning over so his voice is close, so close. “I know what you want, baby boy. You want Daddy’s fat cock anywhere it fits. Don’t you?”

And he slams forward without another word of warning.

Peter yells, instinctively grabbing Wade around the waist. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes- because it hurts, it does. It _burns_ around the edges, and he’s never felt so full in his life. He can feel Wade, he can feel how warm Wade is inside him, he can feel Wade’s heartbeat throbbing through his cock.

“Oh,” Wade says. “Oh. Baby _boy. Yes.”_

Somehow, they don’t move for nearly a minute. Peter’s frantic clenching and unclenching seems to be enough friction for Wade.

Wade, meanwhile, is peppering Peter’s chest with marks- biting and suckling and _biting._ It’s so much- it’s almost too much- but it’s just enough. Fuck, it’s perfect.

Wade doesn’t wait for him to say ‘okay’, or ‘I’m ready’. Somehow, after looking down and seeing the trail of marks on Peter’s chest, he must decide that the time has come to move. Peter, eyes closed, almost relaxed now, chokes on his own breath as Wade slides out with a wet sound and slams back in.

Peter feels as all the air is punched out of his chest. His ass snaps back to tight, clenching as hard as he can.

“Perfect,” Wade breathes. “Look at you, so perfect. So tight, god, baby boy.”

The praise fills Peter to the brim, warming him up from the inside. Well, it might just be Wade’s cock that’s doing that, but it feels like it’s the praise.

Wade gives another few thrusts like that- slow and hard and strong, before trying to fall into a rhythm.

“Yes,” he repeats, over and over. “Yes, yes, _yesss._ You’re mine, baby boy, mine.”

“Mmn,” Peter says, in an attempt to agree.

“Yeah?” Wade says, as Peter begins to bounce a little, still clinging onto him for dear life. “You like that? You like being mine?”

“Mmm,” Peter says.

“You said I could take what I wanted,” Wade says. “And baby boy, you know what that means. You’re _mine_ now.”

“Yours,” Peter whispers.

“No one else gets to see you like this,” Wade groans, getting faster. “Fuck- baby boy- make those gorgeous sounds again.”

Ready to comply in a heartbeat, Peter stops holding back the sounds he hadn’t known were there. He gasps and moans uncontrollably as Wade fucks into him again and again, rocking the mattress across the floor a few inches.

“Fuck yes,” Wade hisses. “God, you’re gorgeous like that. Such a good boy.”

Peter realizes he’s hard again as his cock twitches at the words.

“Such a tart,” Wade murmurs, dropping Peter down onto the mattress and unlinking his arms. He grabs Peter’s legs again and starts fucking him at a blinding pace- Peter loses track of his breath. “Sweet little tart,” Wade says. “You like that? Like it when I call you a tart?”

Peter can only try to nod.

“Daddy’s going to fill you up, tart,” Wade says, and Peter reaches down to stroke himself again. Wade doesn’t stop him this time. “You like that?”

Peter tosses his head back, chest heaving.

“Hold on,” Wade groans. “Hold on, baby boy-”

Two more thrusts and Wade comes- slamming forward and shoving Peter back against the wall. He shudders a little, and Peter can feel it, can feel something inside him, wet and hot. Another couple of strokes later and he comes too, with a shout. He spurts up onto Wade’s chest, come splattering over the belts, buckles, and pouches. He can’t think, he can’t speak, he can’t breathe-

He thinks he must black out, then.

* * *

Because when he opens his eyes, he’s lying on his back, feeling blissfully spent, and there’s nothing in his ass. He blinks blearily, looking around. The faint _humm_ of either a dishwasher or a washing machine wafts in from another room.

He looks down at himself and blinks in surprise to see a gigantic pair of sweats on his leg, and his old t-shirt over his chest. He frowns, and takes an experimental sniff- and _no,_ he definitely hasn’t been washed.

The room is empty, though, so he takes his time getting up. His legs buckle when he tries to put weight on them, but on the third try he manages to get upright.

Walking hurts.

There’s no getting around it. Walking hurts, and every step makes his ass burn like it’s never burnt before. After five or so steps, he gets used to it, and manages to hobble out to the main room of the apartment.

“Ah, sleeping beauty,” he hears Wade say, and whirls around to see Wade standing in the kitchen.

Wade, too, has changed clothes. He’s not wearing his suit- it must be in the washing machine, Peter realizes- but a matching pair of sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt. The mask is still on his face, rolled up to his nose. As he looks at Peter, he breaks into a smile and his eyes crinkle.

Magic, Peter thinks dully. It has to be magic. There is absolutely no way in hell that suit is handmade.

“Um,” Peter says. “Morning.” And then he takes a deep breath. He’d decided this last night, there’s no going back now. He’s lying to his parents- not really technically lying, but he’s doing _this,_ and he thinks he knows what their opinions would be on the subject- but he doesn’t want to lie to Wade.

He walks into the kitchen and leans on the counter furthest away from Wade, looking down at his shoes.

“Hey, um,” he says. “You, uh. You know SHIELD. And stuff.”

Wade twirls a spatula between his fingers and pushes what Peter realizes are scrambled eggs around in the frying pan. “I do,” he says.

“And SHIELD knows about you,” Peter says. “And, um. And they don’t.”

“You’re saying I’m good at hiding,” Wade clarifies. Peter nods. “Well, thanks very much. Always good to hear.”

“Can I stay here?” Peter asks, before he loses the nerve.

Wade blinks.

“I mean,” Peter says quickly. “I mean, just. I don’t know for how long. I don’t have a job, or anything, but- I don’t eat a lot, and I have a cafeteria card at the college, so I wouldn’t even have to mooch, and-”

“Of course,” Wade says slowly. “That is, if you tell me why you’re running away from SHIELD.”

Peter bites his lip.

“See,” he says. “That’s. That’s complicated. See.”

Peter can see the exact moment when comprehension dawns on Wade, because it’s the exact moment when the spatula slips from his fingers and clatters to the kitchen floor.

“Don’t tell them!” Peter squeaks, before Wade can get a word out. “Please, don’t tell them, I’m sorry, I should just- just please, _please_ don’t tell them.”

Wade blinks, bending down and picking up the spatula. He brings it to the sink, looking over his shoulder at Peter. “Of course I won’t,” he says, flipping the tap on. “Baby boy. I just deflowered the golden child of America’s Favorite Sweethearts. Do you know what they’d do to me if I told them?”

Peter winces. “Not good things,” he guesses.

“Not good things,” Wade agrees. He shuts the tap off and wipes the spatula dry on his shirt.

Peter sighs. “Sorry,” he says. “I… should have been honest with you.”

Wade shrugs. “You can still stay,” he says, and Peter nearly melts with relief. “I’ve had freeloaders before. But they were never this cute.” He winks.

“Would you have been different?” Peter asks, suddenly curious. “If you’d known who I was?”

“Well,” Wade says, “I wouldn’t have wasted time savoring you.”

“Oh, that was savoring?” Peter teases.

“Sure it was.” Wade shrugs. “I wasn’t going to deflower you on the first date.”

Peter snorts.

The eggs sizzle on the pan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tickets to hell, tickets to hell  
> get em cheap while they last


	5. Chapter 5

Tony Stark had been having a perfectly wonderful morning, thank you very much.

And that means something, when you’re Tony Stark. Good mornings are pretty far and few between- considering the stress of running a business like Stark Industries, keeping track of the rest of the Avengers (because no matter what anyone says or what anyone’s title is, Tony is the backbone of the team and everyone knows it, no, no one _cares_ if you’re the Captain, shut _up),_ and the seemingly never-ending nightmares that follow him to sleep like beer follows liquor.

So when he’d woken this morning without a headache, not to an alarm but to the Saturday sun, Tony had been feeling _extremely_ relaxed, thank you.

“Why do you keep saying thank you-”

And when he’d been _so rudely_ interrupted in the middle of what _had been_ a wonderful morning phone call with Pepper- well, morning for him, Pepper’s still in Japan- he’d been perfectly within his rights to shout for FRIDAY to take counteractive measures, thank you _very much._

“Stop it, seriously, would you just shut up and listen-”

“All I’m saying is you’re paying for the flowers I’m sending her,” Tony snaps, typing one-handed on his phone without even looking at it. “No, you’re paying for twice the flowers I was planning on sending her. And for her phone bill. And-”

“Peter’s gone,” Bucky says.

Tony’s thumb freezes.

“What,” he says, looking slowly between the two of them. When neither of them offer words, he tries again. “What do you mean, he’s gone?”

“He… I went to check on him this morning,” Steve explains. “But his door was locked. So I busted in-”

Tony snorts.

“I _asked first,”_ Steve growls. “But he didn’t answer, so I got worried, and-”

“So he’s gone on a Saturday, so what?” Tony shrugs. “He’s sixteen, he can do what he wants.”

“He left this,” Bucky says, holding out a worn-looking iPhone.

“Shit,” Tony says. “Well, he’s gone.”

“Tony,” Steve says.

“What do you want me to do?” Tony asks, throwing his hands up. “I can trace that if you want, but all it’ll do is lead you back here. It’s not like I can access a GPS record of wherever he’s been. That’s not how it _works.”_ He frowns. “And why are you asking me? Just go to SHIELD for help.”

“I don’t want SHIELD involved,” Steve says flatly.

“We don’t want _press_ involved,” Bucky translates.

Tony’s impatience softens a bit at that.

“I get it,” he says. “God forbid the world ever find out that anyone related to Captain America isn’t good at following rules. Geez, can you imagine?”

“Stark,” Bucky growls.

“Please,” Steve says, in his best heart-softening voice.

Tony’s heart softens.

“You have to do something,” Bucky snaps, taking the phone back before Tony can snatch it out of his hand. “Facial recognition. Whatever. You can do that?”

“I can’t just hack into security feeds around the city at random,” Tony splutters. “Do you have any idea how much of a breach of privacy that would be? If I wanted access to the technology, I’d have to go through SHIELD to get it. It would take days- maybe weeks- to hack into that many public security feeds.” He snorts. “Besides, I doubt it would turn up much, if he left at night.” He frowns. “How did you not notice? Your house is the fifth most secure building in the world.”

“Debatable- and we were busy,” Steve says distractedly.

“You weren’t watching him?”

“We were _busy,”_ Bucky says.

Tony drags a hand down his face, sighing into his palm. “Jesus. Okay.”

“You’ll help?”

Tony sighs. “By the looks of it, he left on his own. Which means he probably won’t want to be found. Which means he’s probably _fine._ Jesus, stop looking at me like that. I don’t think he’s a goner- I’ve seen him in action, the kid can take care of himself just fine. Well, mostly fine. He wouldn’t do great against, say, a horde of Brood or a Symbiote, but I doubt one of those is going to pop out of the ground anytime soon.”

He waits, but the furious looks on Steve and Bucky’s faces don’t change. So he sighs.

“If you really want to run facial recognition,” he says, and Steve’s frown turns hopeful, “I’ll have to do it through SHIELD. And if we do it through SHIELD, you’ll have to explain why. And _that_ will be fun.”

“So, what, you have any better suggestions?” Bucky grumbles.

Tony shrugs.

“Find someone who’s good at finding people.”

“Again, you have any suggestions?”

Tony sighs.

“SHIELD wouldn’t approve if they knew, but.” He smiles. “I know a guy.”

Anything, he thinks. Anything to get them to stop _looking at him like that._

* * *

They’re smack dab in the middle of that magical, golden time between quarters. The last little stretch of summer before fall comes sweeping in is precious, precious time. Peter remembers spending this time in the local pool, as a kid. He’d duck his head under the water, force his eyes open, and pretend he was flying. After swimming would lose its appeal, he’d head over to the ice cream vendor by the side of the fence and buy an ice cream sandwich.

He remembers how his uncle had always swum with him, with his goofy swimming trunks and his waterproof wristwatch. He’d stand with his feet wide apart and count the number of times Peter could swim in circles through his legs before needing to come up for air. Or he’d toss his watch into the pool for Peter to fetch. Or he’d let Peter grab onto his shoulders and turn into the Ben Bus, swimming from one end of the pool to the other, sometimes ducking under the water with Peter still clinging onto his back for dear life, shrieking with joy, as the last sunlight of the summer twinkled through the water.

And now, Peter’s lying with his legs over his head as Wade Wilson sucks his own come out of his ass.

“Want a taste?” Wade asks, pulling off and sticking out his tongue.

“No thanks,” Peter says. “I know where that’s been.”

Wade snorts, pulling his tongue back into his mouth. “Fine, but you don’t know what you’re missing.”

The thrill of the night and the morning has worn off by now. Peter may have been too star-struck and high on adrenaline to really say or do much for the last twelve hours or so, but now he’s found his voice again.

Through the months, he and Wade had developed an almost-relationship. Over ice cream, they’d talked and talked, and Wade had flirted, and Peter had blushed at first and then learned how to retort back, how to make Wade laugh. And then he’d decided that he’d liked that, Wade laughing. And the best way to make it happen had seemed to be to joke with him, to snark back as much as Wade snarks to him.

(As much as he hates to admit it, the word _snark_ will never leave his vocabulary. Steve uses it whenever he feels particularly parent-y, and it annoys Peter to no end.)

“Baby boy,” Wade says, and all Peter’s hopes of keeping the snark vanish instantly. He melts into a puddle, legs still tucked up over his head.

“Mm?”

“Nothing,” Wade says, shrugging. “I just like seeing you do that.”

Peter goes pink, looking at the window.

“And I like seeing you do _that,”_ Wade says. He presses a kiss to Peter’s chest. And then, after a moment of thought, starts nibbling again, adding to the constellations of bruises already littering Peter’s skin.

Peter doesn’t really notice how it happens, but somehow Wade’s fingers end up inside him again. Only two this time- he’s devoting most of his energy to sucking on Peter’s chest.

Wade’s in the middle of swirling his tongue in a particularly nice circle around Peter’s left nipple when his phone rings.

Frowning, Wade reaches for it with his free hand and tucks the mask a little higher, to get his ears free. He slides to accept the call and holds the phone to his ear.

“H’lo?” he says, stroking his fingers lazily. Peter rolls his hips impatiently. “Well, _hello, darling,”_ Wade coos into the phone. “Aww, why not? It’s cute.” He rolls his eyes. “I can call you darling if I want. Or do you have to be my sugar daddy?” A pause. “No? Shame. I’d be a good sugar baby.”

Peter can hear the static noise from the phone as whoever’s on the other side starts shouting themselves hoarse. Wade winces and holds the phone out a few inches.

“All right, all right,” he shouts into the receiver. “All _right-_ what do you want?”

There’s a very long pause as Wade listens to the other person talk. He passes the time by teasing a third finger around Peter’s rim but never really adding it. A few times, he slips the tip in, but always pulls it back out before it gets too far. After nearly five full minutes, Peter’s a panting mess on the sheets.

“Okay,” Wade says suddenly, and Peter’s heart leaps. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

And then he hangs up.

 _“So_ sorry about that,” he coos, turning back to Peter. “Where was I? Somewhere around here, I think.” He bends down and latches his lips onto Peter’s neck.

“Who was that?” Peter asks, unable to hold back his curiosity.

“Tony Stark,” Wade says.

_“What?”_

Peter sits up, knocking Wade in the face with his chest.

“Shit, sorry,” he says, reaching over. “But what? Are you serious?”

“Mm,” Wade says, not looking worried or bothered in the slightest, what the _fuck?_

“Did he mention- I mean- was it about me?” Peter stammers.

“Mhm,” Wade says.

“And you said- you said you’d keep an eye out.” Peter goes white, all the pink blush gone from his cheeks. “You’re not going to _tell him,_ are you?”

Wade gives a lazy little smile. “Of course not,” he says. “Then he’d take you away. And I really, really don’t like it when people touch my stuff.” He winks. “Well, unless they’re cute. Then they can touch my stuff all they want.”

 The small, feeble embers that make up the remains of the only rational part of Peter’s brain twitch at being called Wade’s ‘stuff’.

“So what are you going to do?” Peter asks. And then, after a moment- “And since when have you been friends with Mr. Stark?”

“Nothing, and I’m not,” Wade says.

And then Peter remembers that Wade still has two fingers slicked up inside him- because he twists them around, sending Peter boneless again.

“We just have the same opinions about SHIELD,” Wade says, hooking his fingers back and making Peter whine. “Because sure, sometimes there’s a call for big scary government agencies to step in and wave their big scary government agency badges around- but sometimes doing things under the radar is less hassle- and safer.”

“So that makes you buddies?” Peter challenges. Wade jabs a third finger in at the remark and scissors it along the rest for a moment before pulling it back out again.

“It means we work together. On occasion.” Wade frowns. “I scratch his back, he scratches mine.”

“He’s calling in a favor from you,” Peter guesses. “He wants you to scratch his back. Which means he’s already scratched yours.”

“Mm, it might,” Wade says evasively.

Peter looks at him, eyes wide and expectant.

“For heaven’s sake.” Wade adds the third finger in again, clearly trying to distract Peter. “It’s not even an interesting backstory.”

“I’m still-” Peter grunts, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and letting it go again, “-interested.”

“Look, baby boy, how do you think I’m so good at keeping SHIELD off my back?” Wade prompts, sounding a little irritated. “If I was really hiding from them on my own, do you think I’d be living ten minutes away from their headquarters?”

Peter considers this.

“I just thought you were-” Wade’s finger nudges against his prostate and he digs the back of his head into the pillows. “-really, really good at hiding.”

“Flatterer,” Wade says, and the light little air to his voice is back. “No, seriously. He knows that SHIELD would eat me alive if they knew where I was- or if they knew everything I’d done. I still don’t know exactly how much of me is on their files- ooh, I should check sometime.”

“So,” Peter says, putting the pieces together. “He helps you out by keeping SHIELD off your tail?”

“Right-o!”

“Huh. That’s. Generous of him.” Peter frowns.

“Being obscenely generous is his thing,” Wade says, shrugging. “And what was I supposed to say? ‘Thanks, but I’d rather get captured by SHIELD and have my own ass fed to me indefinitely for the next thousand years’?”

Somehow, the only word out of that sentence that translates into Peter’s mind is ‘ass’. He’s sixteen, after all.

“Someone’s very worried about you,” Wade teases, now bending over to press noisy kisses onto Peter’s stomach, just teasing above his cock. “So worried, they went to their little millionaire friend for help. And he went to _his_ little hitman friend for help.”

The insanity of it all does nothing to ease the ache of being hard for this long, so Peter decides not to worry about it just yet. Whatever it is, Wade doesn’t seem worried about it. So that means he shouldn’t, right? Besides, Peter’s not worried either. He’d known this would happen, since the moment he’d woken up. Since the moment he’d fallen asleep in Wade’s bed. Since the moment he’d crept out of his window.

“So,” Wade says, reaching up and starting to stroke Peter slowly. “What’s your plan?”

“My- _hah-_ my what?” Peter gasps.

“Your plan,” Wade repeats, slowly. “You didn’t just run off here without a second thought.” He winks. “You’re a college boy, remember? You’re smart.”

College.

_College._

All at once, the little puzzle pieces he’d been trying to piece together snap into place. He remembers, now, that yes- he _had_ had a plan. It had been a shitty little plan, but it had been something. All he’ll need is a bit of luck, and a bit of generosity on Wade’s part.

“Well,” he says. “I can’t just go back to school.”

“Mhm,” Wade says, sliding his hand down to the base of Peter’s cock and starting to lick the head himself.

“So I’m just not gonna show up next quarter,” Peter explains, toes curling. “It won’t even affect my- _oh-_ my GPA, because it’ll just show up as me dropping the classes, not failing them.”

Wade gives an approving little hum that turns Peter’s knees into spaghetti.

“And I thought that- that maybe you could help,” Peter adds, as his thighs begin quivering.

Wade hums again, turning up the pitch at the end to indicate a question.

“Well- if-” Peter says. “If I want to register for another _hnnn-_ another school around here, I’ll need an ID, and I can’t- just- use the one I have- because for one, it’s-” He stops himself to take a few deep breaths.

Wade, grinning around the tip of his cock, swirls his tongue even faster.

“It’s still in my room back home,” Peter groans. “And- and if I used my real name, they’d catch me in a- _hahfuck-_ a heartbeat.”

Wade pulls off and presses a little kiss to the head of Peter’s cock, looking down at it almost lovingly. “Well, that’s not a problem,” he says, not even looking up at Peter.

“Good,” Peter says, and bites his lip again.

“As long as I get to help pick your fake name,” Wade adds, and this time he does look up, giving Peter an over-exaggerated wink.

“Ugh, fine,” Peter says, but the last word is cut off a little by the air that leaves his lungs in a rush as Wade abandons all pretense of teasing and just swallows him down.

He comes, sinking at least a mile down into the sheets, and Wade slurps him up without a word of protest.

“Like mother’s milk,” he says, when he pulls off. Peter wrinkles his nose.

“Gross,” he says.

“No,” Wade says, _“this_ is gross.”

And he crawls up the bed and kisses Peter, shoving his tongue between Peter’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the comments section is like this big flaming hell party i love it  
> like i was honestly expecting some people to come looking for a fight but no  
> we are all sinners here  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

It turns out that marathon sex with an enhanced superhuman is the quickest way to make Peter very, very tired.

After three more rounds and four more orgasms, Peter can barely pick himself up off the bed. So he doesn’t- he’s gotten more and more used to the smell of Wade’s room, and finds that he doesn’t mind it as much. The stickiness between his legs is the main problem, but. He can live with that.

He stumbles back into sleep somewhere around three or four, and when he wakes, the windows are lit by sun rays and the room is hot, oven hot. 

When his brain comes back online, it’s to the sound of rustling papers.

“Futz-uh-wuh?” he mumbles, rolling over onto his back and trying to look over at Wade.

“Morning, sunshine,” Wade hums. “I know you’re terrible at keeping a straight face, so I gave you a regular fake name.” He winks, holding up a shiny plastic card. Peter focuses his eyes first on the card, which looks spotless and new, and then on Wade’s face behind it: excited, beaming- and still half covered by his mask.

Wade hands it over, and Peter squints down at it. It’s not that he needs glasses, but. But sometimes, in the mornings, they’re just nice to have. His vision isn’t the absolute worst, but glasses help when he’s reading intensely or working on a delicate project.

Trying to get the letters to focus, he can barely make out the name written on the card, beside a picture of his face that he doesn’t remember ever having been taken.

“Paul… Paxton?” he reads, slowly.

“Isn’t it _perfect?”_

Peter’s too tired for this. He yawns, holds the new ID to his chest, and slides his eyes shut.

“S’ nice,” he slurs.

“Oh, be excited.” Wade prods him in the side. “This is exciting- you can go back to nerd school, now, remember?”

Oh, yes. Peter remembers. There’s just a slight problem with his plan, though. “I’m still registered as a high school student,” he reminds Wade, starting to feel a little more awake. “I’m going to college through the high school, so. My name is still down there. I can’t just run a fake ID by the college and tell them I go to high school, they’re going to check.”

Wade shrugs. “So don’t say you go to high school.”

Peter cracks his eyes open and sits up. “I have to,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because- because it’s the program, I have to take it through the high school- it means they pay for the classes for me, I get them for free.”

“Oh,” says Wade. And then- “I’ll just pay for them.”

Peter gapes.

Sure, it’s just community college classes, but _still._ Six classes a quarter, three quarters a year- one quarter alone is nearly a thousand dollars.

“I can’t-” Peter stammers. “I- you-”

“Oh, hush,” Wade says, snatching back the ID. “It’s no trouble, sweetums. I’m happy to do it- anything to see you smile.” He winks. “And don’t you worry about paying me back- we both know you will.”

Peter’s mouth opens and closes several times, but no words manage to get out.

“Well,” Wade says, peering down at the photo. Somehow Peter can tell his eyes are narrowed, even though he can’t actually see them through the mask. “Now that that’s all taken care of, we can go down and set you up tomorrow, hm?”

“I… I guess we can,” Peter says slowly. “I mean- you won’t be coming with, will you?”

“I’m moral support,” Wade says firmly.

“It’d look a bit odd,” Peter points out. “I mean, if I just show up at a college with you in tow.”

Wade’s eyes narrow even further. And- impossibly- he doesn’t say anything.

“I mean,” Peter adds hastily, “I mean, with the costume, and- and everything. People would stare.”

It works. Wade’s face falls slack and easy again, his scarred-over mouth curling into a lazy grin.

“Baby boy, that’s so cute,” he hums, setting the ID card up on the windowsill and leaning back on the bed. He kicks off his boots, letting them land haphazardly on the floor. “You want to be all… all independent, hm?”

Peter swallows thickly. He’s not sure what the right answer to this question is.

“I. Yes?” he tries.

“Don’t want the other kids at school to see Daddy dropping you off,” Wade purrs.

And Peter knows he’s safe.

He sighs into the sheets, letting his eyes go half-lidded again. It’s a nice, lazy evening, he thinks to himself. He has nothing to worry about.

(That doesn’t stop his heart from thudding.)

“No,” he answers. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“That’s right,” Wade says, and his voice is startlingly close. Peter opens his eyes and nearly jumps to see Wade less than an inch from his face, looking intently between Peter’s eyes. “Because only I get to see you like this.”

“Yeah,” Peter breathes. “No one else.”

“You like that,” Wade says, and it’s not a question. It’s certainly not something Peter’s going to deny- at least, not when Wade is this close. “You’re mine. And you like that.”

“Yeah,” Peter says.

(It happens so faintly that he doesn’t recognize it, but something in the back of his mind trembles.)

“Good,” Wade says into his neck. And then, all at once, he changes. His shoulders become bouncy again, his eyes crinkle good-naturedly at the edges, and Peter feels as some invisible string that’s been holding him up _snaps._ He melts into a puddle on the bed.

“So!” Wade says. “I think we should celebrate the good news.”

Peter snorts. “We’ve been celebrating all day.”

“A better kind of celebrate,” Wade clarifies.

Peter lets himself have a smirk. “Doesn’t really get much better than this.”

Wade makes a little high pitched noise and peppers kisses to Peter’s neck. “Oh, you’re so _cute,”_ he whines. “But there’s more to life than dick, baby boy.”

“All right, all right.” Peter squirms as Wade’s lips tickle his neck. “All right- what did you want to do to celebrate?”

“Well, I was planning on eating you out again- because you make the most _adorable_ little whiny sounds,” Wade says. And Peter may have come more times than he can count already today, but he’s _still sixteen_ and his cock still twitches eagerly at just the thought of it. “But since you want to whine about it- let’s go out.”

Peter blinks. “Out?”

“Out- outside, out of the room, out of here,” Wade elaborates, gesturing vaguely with his arms. “You’re in college, aren’t you supposed to be smart?”

He reaches over and ruffles Peter’s hair in the same way that Steve does when he Gives Peter Life Advice- and then kisses him in the same way that Steve has never, _ever_ done.

“Don’t you think,” Peter says as Wade pulls off and then starts nibbling down at his neck. He squirms as it tickles- he can’t help it. “Don’t you think that’s kind of risky? If, um, if they’re looking for me?”

“Nah.” Wade shrugs. “The only ones looking for you are your daddies, Stark, and me. All we have to do is go to Jersey and we’ll be just fine.”

“Well,” Peter says reluctantly. “Okay. I guess.”

“I’ll get you a disguise,” Wade says, and reaches over to muss up his hair.

* * *

A ‘disguise’ turns out to be a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap, “because all the cool kids are doing it, nowadays,” Wade insists.

Peter just tugs the bill of his cap down so it’s blocking his eyes from view- though they’re already blocked plenty by the sunglasses.

Among the seemingly endless list of fighting techniques that Wade’s amassed over the years, there’s another list he’s compiled that is just as intricate and detailed- and that is a list of every single ice cream place in the state of New York.

He knows exactly where to go once they hit Jersey, anyway.

It’s a Carvel shop not far from the water. And to be honest, when Wade had suggested Jersey, Peter had expected something that was more than a few thousand feet from the border. But Wade’s still not worried and ice cream is ice cream, so Peter forgets to be upset about it as he licks the side of his soft serve cone, trying not to let it drop onto the pavement below as they walk towards the County park that’s just a little ways north.

Peter thinks they must look a sight. After all, Wade’s taking great effort not to brush the top half of his mask with his frankly enormous tower of ice cream, all the while trying to talk to Peter as he eats. He hasn’t bothered to deck himself out in the rest of the suit, though, so the mask is the only alarming thing.

Somewhere along the way, he reaches for Peter’s hand, and Peter lets him take it.

Peter realizes he doesn’t remember seeing Wade put his gloves back on again, but there they are. Textured and smooth, they’re black. He wonders if Wade’s hands ever get too hot from being cooked by the sun.

He doesn’t know the exact protocol for holding hands while walking, but whatever they’re doing seems to work. Wade’s taller than him, so Peter takes the underhand position and lets Wade swing their hands back and forth as they step through the park.

It’s actually… kind of nice. Domestic, Peter thinks. After a while, Wade’s hand slips out of his own and slides around his waist to rest on the small of his back. As they reach a clearing in the park, Wade steers them to a bench and he sits, gratefully. He licks his ice cream and wonders if ice cream is their Thing, now. Couples have Things.

Does that mean they’re a couple?

The sun gleams through the leaves, casting them both in a light green glow.

A memory, unbidden, slides down Peter’s neck and fills his vision. A memory of being nine years old and running, laughing, through the grass of a park just like this one, with the sun hanging over the trees like it’s doing right now. A memory of two solid hands, one flesh, one metal, grasped around either chain of his swingset.

“No,” he remembers Steve saying firmly. Bucky had laughed.

“Come on, he’ll be fine,” had been the reply, and the swing had been pulled back another two feet.

“It’s dangerous,” Steve had warned.

“I always thought I could swing you all the way around, you used to be this small,” Bucky had said, and Steve’s face had melted from worry into fondness, and the next thing Peter knew-

He was flying. Flying up and around the top of the swingset, clinging to the chains for dear life, and shrieking with joy as the swing vaulted up over the top of the set and swung down onto the other side.

Another memory: Steve pointing up at the leaves of the trees, which were rustling fiercely.

“See,” Bucky had whispered, still pointing. “There’s another layer of air up there, and it’s moving faster than the air down here. That’s why those kites can stay up, even though it doesn’t feel windy.”

“But how do I get it up there?” Peter remembers his eleven year old self whining, holding the circular kite to his chest.

“Like this,” Steve had said, and in the next moment he had taken hold of the red, white, and blue kite and thrown it up in the air, acting for all the world as if he were throwing his actual shield and not a kite replica.

The kite had caught in the wind, up by the very tips of the trees, and tugged hard at the string in Peter’s hands. So hard that it had wrenched out of Peter’s tiny grip and soared up, up, up into the air- until it was far above any of the other kites in the park.

Peter had watched it go with his mouth open, eyes prickling at the edges.

“Well, fuck,” Bucky had said.

_“Bucky.”_

“I lost it,” Peter had said, looking first at his shoes and then up at Steve. “I lost it.”

“That’s okay,” Steve had assured him, bending down on his knees. “We’ll get you a new one.”

“We’ll get you a hundred new ones, kid,” Bucky had said, looking up at the kite as it sailed higher and higher. “Jesus, look at that. S’ gonna block out the sun. Even yours doesn’t go that high.”

“Mine isn’t made out of paper,” Steve had shot back, and Bucky had snorted, and then they’d gone to get ice cream and they’d sat in the park and looked at the clouds and the kites and Peter doesn’t remember anything beyond that.

“So,” Wade says, and Peter nearly jumps off the bench. Wade raises an eyebrow and scoops up a tongueful of ice cream that Peter tries and fails not to stare at. Wade gives him a look, and swallows it down. “What’s with the sad face?”

“Huh?” Peter frowns, tongue halfway out to his own ice cream cone. “What d’you mean?”

“The sad face,” Wade says, sticking out his bottom lip. “Were you having a backstory moment, or something?”

“Oh,” Peter says. “Just. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

Peter watches the field full of children run across the grass, giggling to one another. He watches one of them hold up a stick and declare something to the others, who all yell back in loud retorts.

“It’s just,” Peter says, and looks down at his melting cone. “I just wonder what they’re thinking. Right now.”

“Mm,” Wade says. “Your daddies, right.” Peter’s not sure how Wade’s able to verbally capitalize and not-capitalize words- maybe that’s just part of his powers. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about them.”

“What?” Peter frowns, looking over at Wade. “Why not? They’ve gotta be worried sick, right?”

“Exactly,” Wade says, and the grin on his face makes him look like he’s reliving the best moment of his life. “Doesn’t that feel good?”

Peter blinks. “I,” he says. “No?”

“Oh, come on.” Wade snorts. “They deserve to worry a little. After all, since when have they ever let you do anything _fun?”_

“Well,” Peter says slowly.

“That’s why you came to me in the first place, isn’t it?” Wade eggs him on, finishing off the last bit of his cone. “Because you were tired of them, weren’t you? Tired of never having a say-so in your own life, isn’t that right?”

“I mean,” Peter says. “I mean, I guess.”

“Face it, baby boy,” Wade hums. “I’m your last chance of ever getting that choice.”

Peter looks at his ice cream.

“And you’re running from them now,” Wade says, “because you’re scared they’re going to take that away from you.”

Peter thinks.

It’s true, he tells himself. Sure, Bucky and Steve aren’t abusive parents, but he can’t deny that they have a tendency to hover. They won’t let him go on Spiderman missions without him telling them exactly where he is and when he’s going. They won’t let him patrol at night. They won’t let him stay up later than midnight, even though he knows for a fact that they stay up much later than that on the regular.

And yeah, he thinks. Yeah. If they catch him out here, if they see him with Wade, if they know.

If they find him, he thinks, then he’ll never get another chance to get out. They’ll keep him locked up so tight in that goddamn prison of a house, with its golden walls and diamond windows, until he rots there.

“So let them worry,” Wade murmurs. He’s close again, so close Peter can feel his breath brush over the tip of his ear. “Let them come- let them try. Because I’m never letting them take you away.” And then, voice quiet as a whisper- _“I promise.”_

Peter shivers into the bench.

"Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Okay.”

Wade’s grin turns triumphant for a fraction of a second before sliding back into that lazy little smile Peter’s growing so used to. He pulls back and leans against Peter, against the bench.

Peter doesn’t know what the conversation turns into after that. He answers Wade automatically and rambles about school a bit, but his mind won’t let go of his parents.

What must they be doing now, he wonders. Part of him-most of him- thinks darkly that they should stay away, that he should run as far and as fast as he can, should stick with Wade and keep this- this wonderful, glorious little space he’s made for himself- just to himself.

And another part of him-

\- the part that had burned to ashes, the part that is so small and beaten now that he can no longer hear it-

Another part of him wonders where they are, and if they miss him.

* * *

“Well?” Steve prompts, in a voice that barely shakes around the edges.

“Oh, it’s you,” Tony says, not looking up from his work table. “Did FRIDAY let you in? Why did FRIDAY let you in?”

 _“I_ let us in,” Bucky growls.

“Bucky convinced FRIDAY-” Steve tries.

“So you broke in,” Tony says.

Steve gives a halfhearted glare at Bucky.  There’s a few seconds that pass in which they look between one another.

“Well?” Tony prompts. “What do you want?”

 _“It’s been a whole day,”_ Steve repeats. “And you’re still here, playing with your desk toys.”

“First of all,” Tony says, “this is not a ‘desk toy’, this is a highly developed mentally calibrated prosthetic that could, in fact, change the medical world as we know it today.”

He scowls at them both.

“And second of all?” Bucky asks.

“There is no second of all,” Tony says. “I just wanted to say ‘first of all’.”

“Where the hell is Peter?” Steve demands, taking two steps into the lab and nearly denting the floors with his footsteps.

“If I knew, I’d tell you,” Tony says, shrugging and looking down at the contraption on the table. “Pass me that socket wrench, would you? And the gloves.”

“If you don’t know, then why aren’t you _looking for him?”_ Steve shouts, slamming a hand down on the work bench. The entire metal contraption jitters to the side, and Tony drops the tiny screw he’d been holding.

“I told you, I’ve got someone on it!” Tony rolls his eyes, yanking the contraption back. “It’s whatever.”

“It’s whatever,” Steve repeats, voice low. “It’s _whatever.”_

“Yeah,” Tony says, shrugging. “It’s whatever. It’s cool. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Losing our son for fourteen hours is nothing to worry about,” Steve echoes.

Tony whirls around, abandoning the work table. “He’s a _sixteen year old kid,”_ he barks, and Steve flinches back a step. “What did you think he was going to do? Listen to your every word and cherish your presence?”

“I thought he might care enough about his parents not to _leave us behind!”_ Steve roars.

Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder.

Steve inhales, but the breath is shuddery and shaken. His hands have somehow become solid rock at his sides, and his throat is tight.

“Steve,” Bucky says quietly.

“What,” Steve bites out, seemingly forgetting that Tony’s in the room. “Bucky, what if he’s not coming back?”

“He will,” Bucky says firmly. “Steve, he will. We’ll get him back.”

“What if we don’t?” Steve closes his eyes, fighting back tears. “Bucky, _why_ did he run?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Tony says.

It’s frankly impressive how Steve and Bucky manage to coordinate the murderous looks on their faces when they spin around to glare at Tony for his one-syllable contribution.

“Stark,” Bucky growls. “If you say one more word.”

But they’re under Tony’s roof, and the number one rule about being under Tony’s roof is No Punching Tony Under Tony’s Roof.

“All right, Brave Little Toaster,” Tony says, holding up a hand. “Cool it.”

“Stark,” Bucky says, voice low and deadly, “It’s been a whole day and you’ve done _nothing. A_ re you going to look for him or not? Because if you won’t, _we will.”_

“Good luck doing that subtly,” Tony says, shrugging. “If you’re looking to avoid press, that’s not the way to do it. You’re better off hiring someone and paying them to be discreet about it.”

“Oh, sure,” Bucky says sarcastically. “Yeah, all right, Mr. ‘I know a guy’. Who’s this guy? Why has he turned up nothing?” He scowls. “Did you actually call anyone? Or did you just want us off your backs because this _isn’t such a big deal?”_

“What?” Tony blinks. “What? No- of course I did, geez- I’m an asshole, but I’m not that much of an asshole. Hold on, what’s worse than an asshole? Oh- an unprepared asshole. Okay, so I’m an asshole, but I’m not-”

 _“Enough,”_ Steve grits through his teeth.

“-covered in shit and ready to take a beating, wow, okay, this conversation stopped a second ago,” Tony finishes. “But I had a point,” he adds, as Steve drags his fingers down over his face and Bucky cracks the knuckles of his right hand.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something.

“Tony,” Steve cuts in, giving Bucky a sideways glance. “What is it?”

“So I know I said I wasn’t worried before,” Tony says.

“Oh, I’ll give you something to worry about,” Bucky says under his breath.

“And I know we all agreed he left on his own terms, _but,”_ Tony says. “Maybe. I mean, _maybe.”_

“Oh, god,” Steve says weakly.

“I’m just saying!” Tony says, holding both hands up now in defense. “I’m just saying, I mean, he’s kind of asking for it in that getup, going around at night and fighting crime. He’s bound to make enemies.”

Something in Steve snaps. “So our son was asking to be kidnapped,” he thunders, Bucky’s arm around his waist. “He thought it would be a walk in the park, huh?”

“I’m not saying he was kidnapped,” Tony says.

“Well, you’re not saying he wasn’t,” Steve retorts.

“I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

“Which is the same as saying he was-”

“No it’s not, it’s taking probability into account, those are two entirely different concepts-”

“You’re still just standing here in your lab, talking to us,” Steve snarls. “If you really cared, you’d be out there _looking for him.”_

“Steve,” Bucky says quietly. “Steve, I’m upset too. But he’s got a point.”

“Of course he’s got a point,” Steve snaps. “But I’ve got a point too- if Peter’s been taken, then we need to assume that he’s in danger and act accordingly. Stark.”

Tony blinks, snapping into attention. It’s a perk of Steve’s Captain America Voice that Tony will actually listen to him when he speaks.

“Who’s your tracker?” he asks, frowning. “I want to have a word with them.”

“None of your business,” Tony says, but there’s an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before the Captain America Voice. “I’ll pass your message along, what is it?”

“No, I want to talk to them,” Steve says, crossing his arms.

“Look,” Tony says, looking away. “It’s not. He’s not.”

“If you don’t want to tell us who you’ve got tracking our son,” Bucky growls, “then you might want to reconsider asking for his help in the first place.”

“It’s not that,” Tony says quickly. “It’s just that SHIELD would have my head if they knew I’ve been helping him. He’s not exactly on their good side.”

“So you got a wanted criminal to find our son,” Bucky says flatly.

“Not. Entirely,” Tony says shortly.

“I don’t care who it is,” Steve says impatiently. “Convicted criminal or not, if he finds my son, I’ll owe him a hell of a lot.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Tony mutters. “Look, I’ll talk to him, all right? I promise.”

Steve sighs. “All right,” he says. “Fine. But you tell me exactly what he says, and you tell him _exactly_ what I tell you to.”

“God,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “Fine, all right, _dad.”_

Steve gives a heartbroken look at that. 

Tony sighs. "God, you still can't take a joke, old man." Bucky's scowl turns menacing. Tony rolls his eyes again, a little harder. "I'm on it, yeah? I'll find him." He waves his hand impatiently, reaching for a tool that Steve can't even begin to name. "Now get out of my lab."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starbucks girl coming up next chap, i was going to put it here but the smut is fighting me this time  
> also do u like how i've conveniently labeled the porn chapters for u so u can quick-draw to them  
> ur welcome
> 
> also thanks to everyone who listened to me ramble on for 5000 years about character intention and backstory :P ur the real heroes here  
> so my question to the comments section this time (that a couple people have already answered) is: what kind of smut do u want  
> the next bits will probably just be....... devoted to porn soooo  
> im open to any and all suggestions. go wild.  
> edit: seriously guys what kinks do u want _i need to know_


	7. (SMUT)

“See, this is what I thought you meant by celebrating.”

Wade circles the pad of his finger around Peter’s rim, watching the tight little ring start to open around the tip as he teases it.

“You certainly seem eager,” Wade hums, finally slipping one finger past and giving it a wiggle. Peter, who’s starting to get used to the sensation of wriggling things inside him, gives a soft sigh and clenches lazily, melting into the bedsheets.

Peter just smiles at the words, eager for Wade to just get on with it and _fuck him_ again, god. It’s infuriating, really, the thought that he’s spent this long being this empty- and now he can’t stop the rush of impatience because one finger isn’t enough, it’s not _enough._

Wade’s finger finally pulls out, and he prepares himself for more, and-

And then something that’s neither soft nor warm touches the edge of his rim- something small. It’s so small that it slips right past his rim and he clenches instinctively, holding it inside. But it’s not completely in, he can feel something else, something smaller still against his rim, but what-

Again, something presses against his hole. It’s bigger this time, and he has no trouble bearing down on it until it too shoves past the rim and he clenches, sucking it inside. And _again,_ there’s something left, something still not inside him.

He cranes his neck to look down- and his mouth falls open as he sees something winding through Wade’s fingers. It’s a string, which explains the odd feeling of something still caught against his rim. But strung along it is a set of three more- five in total, then- black plastic beads.

“What,” he manages, staring down at them and then up at Wade. Wade’s mask is hitched up over his nose, so Peter can see the teeth in his grin of delight.

“I thought I’d treat you to something special,” Wade says, pressing the third bead against Peter’s rim. This one’s bigger than the first two, and Peter tenses instinctively. The bead pushes up, but it can’t quite get past. Wade tugs on the string, suddenly, and the second bead pops out.

Peter jolts, legs spreading a little wider on the mattress. “Wha-” he manages, feeling emptier by the second.

“Ah-ah, baby boy,” Wade purrs, teasing the second bead around in a circle over Peter’s rim. He’s so slick- half of it is lube, half of it is the come that still sleeps inside him, Wade’s come that hasn’t been wiped away just yet. It leaks out now as the bead teases inside him, knocking around his walls blindly. “You’ll have to do better than that. If you can’t take one, then we’ll have to pull out the last and start again. Understand?”

Peter nods, swallowing.

Wade presses the second bead up against his hole again and he bears down, taking it in. It knocks against the first, a different sensation than fingers but still not quite enough.

“Here we go,” Wade whispers, and the third bead nudges against him. He takes a deep breath and relaxes as it pushes further and further past his hole- until he’s stretched around the widest part of the little sphere. Wade holds it there, teases it out a fraction. Peter whimpers, hole clenching, and Wade gives a little laugh. He presses it in again, and Peter’s hole sucks down, tugging the whole thing inside and snapping shut around the string.

Three beads are much better than two, Peter finds out. He rolls his hips experimentally and they knock around, bumping into each other, filling him gloriously- one of them nudges against his prostate, but he doesn’t know which one and he doesn’t care. His cock jumps up against his stomach, drooling already.

“Ready for the next one?” Wade breathes. He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s pressing the fourth bead forward. Peter gives a low moan as it stretches him wider and wider, even though he’s as slick as he’s ever been in his life. He feels a dribble of come and lube seep out the edge of his hole and slide down his thigh, and shudders.

Again, Wade waits until the bead is at its widest point, and keeps it there. This time, he twists it this way and that, watching Peter raptly.

“Please,” Peter groans, trying to shove his hips back. “Please- please, I need- please-”

“Baby boy,” Wade murmurs, letting the bead push a little further. “Baby boy, what do you need?”

“Need it,” Peter gasps. “In me. Please.”

“There you go,” Wade purrs, and gives the bead one last little tap. Peter cries out as his hole clenches shut again, trapping the fourth bead inside along the rest. “There you go, Daddy knows what you want.”

“Yes,” Peter moans. “Yes, fuck.”

“Only one more,” Wade says, giving the string a little tug. All four of the beads clatter against each other inside Peter, knocking against the sides of his walls, pressing hard up against his prostate. He can almost hear them, can almost feel them clanging against his bones, sending little vibrations up and down his spine.

“Please,” Peter says again, chest slick with sweat. His stomach, not for the first time, is dripping with precome, cock hard and leaking and _aching._ “Please- I need it, please, give-”

“You sure?” Wade teases, pressing the last bead up as gently as he can. Peter’s hole opens against it instinctively, but Wade doesn’t let the bead pass, keeps it back. Peter lets out a high whine. “You seem pretty full already, baby boy.”

“I _need_ it,” Peter whines. “I need it, I can do it, please.”

“You really want it?” Wade hums, as though he’s seriously considering just leaving Peter like this- half full and hard. “You really want Daddy to give it to you?”

 _“Yes,”_ Peter insists. “Yes, please, Daddy, please.”

That does it.

The fifth bead is bigger than all the others, possibly bigger than all the others combined. It’s wider around than anything Peter’s ever taken, including Wade’s cock, including all four fingers at once. And as bad as he wants it, he can’t help it. As Wade presses it in, as it approaches the circumference, his hole snaps shut, rejecting it.

Wade makes a low, disappointed sound.

“No,” Peter says, panic rising. “No, please, I can do it, just let me-”

Wade yanks on the string, and Peter howls.

The fourth bead pops out again, bringing with it a mess of lube and come that drops down onto the bottom of Peter’s cheek and slides down onto the mattress below.

“No,” Peter moans. “No, no, please- please, more, please.”

“You know the rules,” Wade hums, and starts swirling the fourth bead in a circle around Peter’s rim again. “Look at you, baby boy, you’re gorgeous like this.”

“I need it,” Peter babbles. “I need it, I need them, please, Daddy, I can take it. I can take it.”

“Let’s see,” Wade says, and in an instant, both beads are being pushed against his rim. He stretches, god, he can feel himself stretching so much it hurts, almost, can feel the other beads trying to make room for the fourth and fifth but there’s just no more room to go- the smallest bead, it feels like, shoves against his prostate relentlessly. He can’t breathe, it’s so much, it’s _too_ much-

And then his hole snaps shut.

They’re in.

“Good boy,” Wade purrs, and Peter melts under the praise. “Such a good boy for me, baby boy, look at you.”

A hand presses against his stomach, presses lower, and Peter can feel it nudging the beads inside him.

“You can feel that, can’t you?” Wade whispers, fascinated. Peter nods, eyes shut tight. “Oh, god, gorgeous, look at you. Such a pretty boy for me. My pretty little boy.”

Peter nods again, barely able to breathe.

“Such a greedy little hole you’ve got,” Wade says happily, “swallowing down whatever I give it.” Peter flushes red. It’s ridiculous, the words that are coming out of Wade’s mouth, but they go straight to his cock. He thinks if the beads move one more time, he might just come like this.

And move they do. Wade works his hands over the skin just below Peter’s stomach, rocking the beads around inside him. It’s a different kind of full, Peter thinks. It’s not as warm and it’s certainly not as intimate, but it’s… more, somehow. The movements are random, startling, and every nudge to his prostate makes his toes curl.

“Now,” Wade says, sitting up so suddenly that the bed springs up without his weight. “Dinner!”

“Wh- _what?”_

“Dinner,” Wade repeats, brushing himself off as if he’s somehow covered himself in dust by lying down on the bed.

Peter, who is completely bare, looks around the room, like he’s expecting someone else to show up. “What?” he repeats. He tries to sit up too, but the movement makes the beads shift too much and he falls back down with a sound from the back of his throat.

“Get up, baby boy, I’m making dinner,” Wade elaborates. He leans back down and presses a kiss to Peter’s neck, making him squirm.

“But I’m,” Peter says, and looks down at himself.

“Mm,” Wade says, nodding. “Yes, you are.”

“You just- you just want me to _stay like this?”_

“I think so, yes,” Wade says, nodding.

“That’s- I can’t even stand up,” Peter insists. “I can’t even _sit_ up.”

“Then you don’t have to,” Wade says, shrugging.

“I can stay here?”

“Of course not. Don’t you worry,” he adds, when Peter gives him another disbelieving look. “You’ll like it.”

Peter will never admit it.

As he’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch a few minutes later, head between Wade’s legs, he will never admit to anyone that a small part of him likes it. Likes the rules that Wade’s set up, about not being able to take the beads out, and not being able to touch himself to let himself come.

And the rule about how he’s not allowed to move.

Wade yawns, stretching his arms behind his back. The movement shifts his cock a little, nudging it against the roof of Peter’s mouth. Peter gives a little sound of annoyance, muffled slightly by the cock filling his mouth to the brim.

“Ready to start, baby boy?” Wade asks, looking down at him.

Peter wants to nod, but he can’t.

Wade doesn’t seem to mind his lack of an answer, because he gives a soft laugh and pulls his microwave lasagna closer to him on the couch with one hand. With the other, he reaches for the remote and flicks the TV on.

It’s excruciating.

Peter can’t help clenching around the beads inside him, making them roll around aimlessly, knocking into his prostate, into each other, sometimes even pushing back up against his rim. His cock is so hard it hurts, standing at full attention and draining blood from his brain as it oozes out precome onto the carpet. Occasionally, it even jumps high enough to tap against the side of the couch, leaving a shiny smear on the leather.

He waits. And _waits._ But Wade seems fully engrossed in eating his lasagna and watching whatever reality show is on- Peter can’t turn to see what it is, even if he can hear it. He can’t turn up and ask for a glass of water, or ask to adjust his legs, or ask to let himself come just once, just _once._ He can’t even ask to break the rules.

Wade’s cock is hot and heavy in his mouth, and Peter can feel the steady little stream of precome edging out of the tip. Every so often he has to swallow it down, to push back the saliva building as Wade’s cock rests on his tongue, edges the back of his throat. The first time, he isn’t sure if it counts as moving, but Wade doesn’t mention it, so he figures it’s probably fine.

It takes Wade fifteen full minutes to finish his food. When he does, Peter thinks that maybe it’ll be over, finally. Maybe he’ll be satisfied. But no, he doesn’t make a single motion to indicate that he even realizes Peter is there, nestled between his legs.

After ten more minutes, Peter’s jaw starts to ache. After fifteen, his throat feels dry, like it’s used up all the saliva he has. After twenty, his right leg starts to tingle a little.

And then-

And then all sound of the TV is drowned out as fingers caress his hair, slowly but surely pulling him up off of Wade’s cock. He sucks in a breath through his throat, gulping down air, and-

The hands yank him back, forcing him all the way down, nose pressed up against the warm skin of Wade’s stomach through his shirt. He gags, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, and tries to remind himself that this is still better than not moving at all.

“Good boy,” he hears Wade tell him, and his thumb runs over Peter’s hair almost lovingly. Another second and he’s coming against Peter’s tongue. Peter doesn’t gag this time, just lets his jaw relax as come pools under and around his tongue, drools out the edges of his mouth, drips onto the carpet below.

Wade pulls him off slowly, with a warm sigh and another pet through Peter’s hair.

“I knew you could do it,” he says softly.

It’s so _genuine._ Peter’s heart fills to the brim, chest bursting with happiness. It’s real, it’s a real compliment, Wade _means_ it.

“Now,” Wade says, looking down at him. Even through the eyes of the mask, Peter can tell Wade’s looking between his eyes, as a lover would. “Do you want Daddy to take care of you, too?”

Peter blinks.

He’d completely forgotten about the beads- the beads that swim back to his awareness now, tumbling against one another in eagerness. He nods, letting a soft sound trickle out of his throat. The front of the couch is smeared over with precome, and his cock feels full to bursting. At Wade’s words, another little spurt of precome leaks out. But before it can drip off, Wade reaches down and swipes it up with his finger.

He doesn’t have to say it.

Peter’s tongue reaches Wade’s finger before his lips do, swirling around the glove and suckling down the salty taste of his own precome. Another dollop gushes out, and Wade grabs this one too and feeds it to Peter’s eager tongue, until his lips are shiny and slick, and he doesn’t think he has any more precome left to spill.

His cock always proves him wrong, and nothing in the world can stop him from leaking when he’s like this.

“Such a good boy,” Wade praises him, and he glows. “Up.”

Peter gets up onto the couch without hesitation, beads knocking and rolling around as he does so. The string leads out of his ass like a little tail, with a tiny plastic ring on the end big enough to slip a finger through.

“Daddy’s going to take these out, now,” Wade says, as Peter gets onto his back and lifts his legs up to give Wade a better angle. Wade pats his stomach, and the beads rumble. “Nice and slow. And then Daddy’s going to fill you up again.”

Peter wiggles his hips, biting his lip and waiting.

Wade hooks his finger in the little plastic ring and gives a tug.

Instantly, Peter’s hole is clenched so tight he’s surprised the string doesn’t break. The last bead, the biggest one, bears down against the other side of his hole, trying to stretch it open. Peter’s lips fall open and a little ‘oh’ leaves his mouth.

“Easy does it,” Wade hums, tugging again. The bead nudges against the back of his rim, pushing and pushing, until-

It’s like a flower opening, as Peter finally forces himself to relax, and the bead starts to slide out. As it reaches the widest point, his feet clench and he closes his eyes, trying as hard as he can not to suck it back in-

Wade tugs again, and it slides out with a _pop._

Peter goes boneless against the couch, breathing heavily. Already, there’s more space inside him. The beads aren’t knocking around as much as they had done a minute ago, and the near-constant nudge against his prostate is gone.

“One down,” Wade sings, and tugs again.

The fourth one, Peter thinks, will be much easier. After all, it’s smaller than the fifth. He waits for the telltale nudge against the other side of his rim, and lets it come out, sighing happily as it breaches him from the other side.

It reaches the widest point-

And Peter’s rim snaps shut, sucking it back inside.

Wade makes a tutting sound. “Now,” he says, “none of that. Remember how good you just were, baby boy.”

Peter flushes red. He hadn’t _meant_ to, it had just… happened. He concentrates, cock throbbing heavily against his stomach. But try as he might, the fourth bead just won’t budge out of him. Wade gets it to the halfway point two more times before sitting back and looking over Peter- who’s breathing hard, eyes closed, entire body tense.

“Baby boy, why don’t I loosen you up a bit, hm?” Wade coos, and leans over to press his lips to Peter’s cock.

Peter yelps, but Wade doesn’t take him down. He licks at the base of Peter’s cock lazily, slides his lips down and suckles at Peter’s balls- each one individually, like he’s savoring hard candies. He takes them both in his mouth, sucks hard, and then licks back up to the base of Peter’s cock.

Peter barely notices as he tugs the fourth bead out effortlessly, and it slides down to meet the fifth.

Lube dribbles down from his hole, some of it landing on the beads, some landing on the leather couch. Wade doesn’t seem to mind.

“See,” he says, pulling off and smiling serenely. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Peter shakes his head, too weak for words.

“Three left,” Wade murmurs.

They come out with a single tug, all three of them. Peter feels concave, without the beads inside him. So empty, so hollow. He feels the last bead as it leaves him, feels it pulling out a trail of lube and old come as it goes.

“Poor little thing,” Wade hums, stroking a hand over Peter’s stomach and smearing around the precome. "Poor little baby boy, look at you. You need it so bad, don’t you?”

Peter nods.

“You need Daddy to fill you up,” Wade purrs, already lifting Peter up off the couch. Peter’s head rocks up and down, but he’s not sure whether it’s a conscious choice or the natural movement of being jostled this much, he’s too exhausted to tell.

“Well, don’t you worry,” Wade murmurs into his neck, settling Peter on his lap. “Don’t you worry, baby boy. Daddy’s here. Daddy’s gonna take _good,_ good care of you.”

Cock slick with come already, Wade lines himself up under Peter and slowly, slowly presses in. Peter grabs his neck and holds him close as he sinks down, feeling the heavy weight of Wade inside him, filling him again.

“Ohh, yes,” Wade groans, halfway inside Peter. “Oh, fuck yes, baby boy.” He thrusts his hips up and shoves the rest of his cock up into Peter without warning, punching the air out of Peter’s chest. Peter gasps, still clutching Wade around the neck.

And then Wade stills. And doesn’t move.

No, Peter thinks. Not this again, no.

“Yes,” Wade says, and Peter realizes his lips have been moving without his own consent.

“Please,” he gasps, tears leaking out now. “Please, please, _please.”_

“Please, what?” Wade prompts.

“Please, Daddy,” Peter cries, as Wade’s hands hold him down, hold Peter still in his own lap. Peter thrashes fruitlessly, riding Wade as best he can but not getting quite enough friction.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Wade groans, digging his thumbs into the milky flesh of Peter’s stomach. “That’s _nice.”_ He rolls his hips up once, the tip of his cock thudding gently against Peter’s prostate. “Say that again.”

“Daddy,” Peter whispers. “Daddy. _Daddy.”_

“That’s right,” Wade says. “That’s right, baby boy. Daddy’s here. Daddy’s got you.”

“Please,” Peter breathes.

“Daddy’s gonna make it all better,” Wade says. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby boy.”

“I need,” Peter gasps. “I need.”

“Shhh.” Wade rubs his thumbs in Peter’s stomach, slicking them with precome, worshiping his skin. “Shh, baby boy. Just relax.”

Peter tries, but he’s clenched so hard around Wade that it’s nearly impossible to. He tries to lift his hips, but Wade’s hands keep him firmly down, and he squirms.

“Say it again,” Wade whispers. “One more time for me, baby boy.”

“Please,” Peter moans into Wade’s neck. “Please, please. Fuck me, Daddy.”

“There we go.”

Wade lifts Peter up by the hips- with the sheer power of his hands- and yanks him back down, shoving his cock up to meet him. They collide in a wet squelch, and Peter gasps again as all the air shoots out of his lungs. Wade tugs him up again by the hips, fingers digging into his skin, and drops him down, fucking up at the same time. After four tries, he finds a good rhythm. Peter hugs his neck as he bounces up and down in Wade’s lap, breath shaky and uneven. One of Wade’s hands finds the curve of Peter’s ass and squeezes hard, thumbing over the pale flesh.

And Peter wonders how he could ever have thought beads could compare to _this._

Wade slams home one more time, buried deep inside him, and flips Peter down so he’s on his back again, head on one side of the couch. Peter falls down without protest, legs lifting automatically. Wade grabs them and links Peter’s ankles around his shoulders, fucking into him without preamble.

The couch skids back with every thrust, as Wade fucks him harder and harder into the cushions. Peter’s hands reach for something, anything- and find the slick leather fabric below him. The whole couch is sticky now, with his precome and spit and Wade’s come. They slide together as easy as anything.

Wade comes inside him with a shout, and he feels as Wade’s come fills him up from the inside out, leaking from the edges and dripping still more mess onto the couch. Wade groans, pulls out, and lifts Peter’s hips up even more so he can press his lips to his hole.

Peter shudders as Wade’s tongue wastes no time slurping up the mess, laving over the edges and prodding inside. He clenches around the wicked little muscle as Wade licks out his own come, groaning as if it’s fresh honey.

Peter doesn’t have time to register what’s happening before Wade drops him down and shoves his cock in again, as if returning it to its rightful place.

“How can you,” Peter gasps, breath hitching every time Wade’s cock pushes forward, “still?”

“Healing factor, baby boy,” Wade says with another grin. “I can come as many times as you need me to, don’t you worry.”

“Oh,” Peter says, a thought coming to mind.

“You like that, huh,” Wade says softly. His thrusts turn small and shallow, quick little punches that never pull out too far, that bump against Peter’s prostate. “You like the thought of me just staying here, filling you up again and again, until you’re full to bursting.”

“Ohgod,” Peter breathes.

“Because I think that’s a _wonderful_ idea,” Wade says, and hope flares up in Peter’s chest. “But we’ll need to get you a plug first.”

The hope sinks.

“I’ll give you one of mine,” Wade says, and the hope returns to life, burning the last little bits of doubt to charred crisps.

Another few thrusts and he comes again with a long low groan, buried deep inside Peter.

“You’re just so gorgeous and _ripe,”_ he says, as the come starts to leak out again. This time, he doesn’t bother licking it up. “So perfect and precious, so… pure.”

The thought of being pure strikes Peter as odd, because he’s not sure anyone can call themselves pure when they have two loads of come dripping out of them. But the words warm him up, anyway.

“I just knew I had to have you,” Wade murmurs, picking up speed again. Every thrust is wet now, as come sloshes around inside Peter, dribbles out the sides. “I knew I had to be the one.”

“Yours,” Peter echoes.

Wade comes again, sighing, _“mine,”_ and then fucks into him harder still.

Peter loses track of how many times Wade comes after that. By the end, he swears he can see his stomach swelling from the sheer amount that’s stuck inside him. He closes his eyes when Wade pulls out, and opens them to the sensation of something soft being set on his stomach.

He looks down and sees a black plug lying on him, innocently. Wade’s fingers trail around his hole, catching stray dribbles of come and pushing them back inside, even as they leak out again. He grabs the plug and presses it in easily, until the flared base rests gently against Peter’s hole, settled in at last.

“There we go,” he hums, patting Peter’s stomach again. “Safe and sound.” He taps the end of the plug, and Peter quivers, cock jumping.

“Oh, yes,” Wade says, “I almost forgot about you.”

And then he swallows Peter down with a lazy hum, one finger rubbing the base of the plug in circles.

A low groan starts at the base of Peter’s chest, grows to the back of his throat, and leaves his lips as a hoarse cry as he comes, comes down Wade’s throat as Wade swallows him down expertly.

“There we go,” Wade murmurs, pressing kisses onto Peter’s stomach and chest. “There we go. Come here.”

And Peter feels himself being lifted up off the couch. One arm slides under his knees, one arm around his torso, bridal style. He closes his eyes and lets Wade carry him back to the bedroom, every step bumping the plug and sending a little nudge of pleasure up his spine. But it’s not enough to bring him back to hardness, he’s too bone tired for that.

Wade sets him down on the bed and tugs the covers up over him, kissing his cheek.

“Get some rest, baby boy,” he coos. “You’re going to need it.”

And Peter falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lied the starbucks girl isnt for another little while  
> thats PLOT we dont want that  
>  ~~what do you think this fic is, some kind of emotional character study about power dynamics and society's depiction of youth???~~
> 
>  
> 
> daddy kink is the bane of my existence i will drown in it


	8. (smut)

Peter’s first thought is, sleepily, _sex?_

Because the first thing he hears as the back of his mind swims back to consciousness is the sound of something unzipping.

But no, the bit of his brain says after a moment. It can’t be that kind of zipper, it’s much too loud. He squeezes his eyes shut against the light he can sense over them, rolling onto his back and arching off the mattress with a soft little groan.

“Morning,” he hears Wade say.

He tries to say _morning,_ but all that comes out is, “mmm.”

The zipper sound comes again, and this time it’s accompanied by a soft clunk, and then the sound of laces. Peter frowns, then cracks his eyes open. It takes a few moments to get used to the lights, but when he blinks again, his eyes focus and he can see.

Wade is standing in the middle of the bedroom, fully dressed in normal civilian clothes. The zipper, Peter realizes, must have come from his jacket. His mask is on all the way instead of hitched up, and he’s hunched over, lacing up his left boot- which is resting on the edge of the bed.

“You’re cute when you sleep,” Wade says conversationally. “You don’t even snore, and you do this little snuffly thing whenever I move.”

“Um,” Peter says. He sits up, covers slipping a little down his chest. He doesn’t remember being tucked in- but then, he’d been pretty damn tired when he’d fallen asleep. Wade probably could have done whatever he pleased while he was unconscious. He takes a moment to check- and yep, he’s still completely naked under the covers.

Wade ties off his laces with a flourish, giving them a sharp tug and setting his boot back on the floor. He pulls out his phone and swipes a few times, humming a little.

Peter shoves the covers off and looks about the room. There’s a pair of sweats he recognizes as the ones Wade had lent him, lying on the floor just at arm’s length. He grabs them and hurriedly tugs them over his legs, trying not to go too red. It’s not like it’s anything Wade hasn’t already seen before, but he’s still not used to anyone seeing him like this.

Wade, still humming, doesn’t look up as Peter slides his legs over the bed and gets to his feet.

And then instantly sits back down, because his knees give an almighty twitch at the sensation of the plug he’d completely forgotten about, still seated happily inside him.

“So,” he says, trying to catch a glimpse of Wade’s phone. He gets a split second view of what looks like a text conversation before Wade tilts the screen away and gives him a look.

“So,” Wade echoes, voice neutral.

“Where are we going?” Peter asks.

“I’m going out,” Wade says, wiggling his left ankle to make sure his boot is on correctly. Satisfied, he taps it on the floor and looks at Peter. “You’re staying here.”

“Oh.” Peter blinks. “Um. Where are you going?”

“Out,” Wade says again. He wiggles his phone. “Duty calls.”

 _“Oh.”_ Peter nods. “Right, yeah.”

“Baby boy, don’t look so sad,” Wade says, eyes crinkling just so, looking at Peter with an almost endearing expression. “I haven’t forgotten about you.”

“No,” Peter says, panic starting to bubble. “I didn’t mean- that’s not what-”

“Aww.” Wade sighs dreamily. “Aww, relax. I know you want to come with. But some things, Daddy has to do on his own.” And he pats Peter over the head.

It’s interesting, Peter thinks, how differently the pet name affects him now. Sure, when all he wants to do is lie on his back and let Wade take control, it’s perfectly natural to let the name slip past his lips. But now- now, when there’s real action happening, when Wade is leaving him behind and telling him to stay where he is, like a good boy-

Peter stands up.

“I want,” he says, but Wade pushes him back down before he can even think of what he’s going to say after that.

“Patience,” Wade says. “Patience. I didn’t forget about you.”

Mouth agape, Peter watches as Wade strides around the bed, humming that same damn tune, and opens his bedside table drawer.

Peter stares.

The drawer is cluttered, like the rest of his apartment. But this clutter is different. Because it’s not a patchwork quilt of dirty clothes and moldy food that meets his eyes as the drawer slides open with a _clunk._ It’s an array of the most diverse collection of sex toys Peter has ever seen.

Technically it’s the only collection of sex toys Peter’s ever seen, but his point still stands.

He understands, now, how Wade had gotten out that plug last night without even leaving the bed.

Wade rummages around in the drawer, and they all clatter against one another. Peter can’t stop staring at them- some are hard plastic, some are soft silicone. Some have buttons, some have dials- some are long, some are short, some are thin, some are thick. All of them look as if they’ve just been unpackaged and dropped into the drawer.

“All clean, of course,” Wade says off-handedly. And then he lets out a satisfied noise and pulls something out. Wade snaps the drawer shut and holds up what looks like, at first, a small silicone dildo. But at a second glance, Peter can see the little ring attached to one end of it, and after tilting his head to get a closer look, he can see that the little cock is hollow inside.

“This,” Wade says, fiddling at the part where the ring and the hollow cock connect, “is for you.”

The little device, Peter thinks, looks remarkably similar to one of those torture devices he’d seen in a slideshow in his last week of European History last year. In an effort to keep the class entertained but not set them all loose, his professor had devoted the last few weeks of class to various methods of torture that had been used over the years.

The only difference between the thing in Wade’s hands and the monstrosity Peter had taken notes on is the lack of spikes on the inside.

And also the fact that it’s made out of silicone.

And that it’s blue.

But Peter can’t help feeling a little thread of worry as Wade holds the thing out expectantly.

“I,” he says slowly. “Um.”

“This,” Wade says, “will keep you nice and ready for me until I get home.”

Peter stares. His legs instinctively inch closer together at the thought of that _thing_ wrapped around him. It doesn’t look painful, but. But it’s definitely a few steps outside of his comfort zone.

“How long, um,” he says. “How long will I have to, uh.”

“Not too long,” Wade says, shrugging. “I just have a few things to take care of.” He winks. “Projects to finish. People to talk to. You know.”

“Oh,” Peter says.

“I’ll be back home in time for dinner,” Wade adds.

Dinner, Peter thinks. As if they’re domestic enough to have something as normal as dinner. Hell, the last dinner they’d had together, Wade had had a helping of microwave lasagna, and Peter had had a mouthful of come.

Well, he thinks, at least he’d gotten some protein.

As if on cue, his stomach gives a little rumble. And then, sensing that one reminder isn’t enough, it gives a louder, deeper rumble. He hunches forward a little on the edge of the bed, wincing. God, how long has it been? What’s the last thing he’d eaten? Ice cream?

“Oh, poor baby,” Wade whines, cocking his head to the side and setting the silicone device on the sheets beside him. “Look at you, you’re probably starving.”

Peter nods, not sure what he is and isn’t allowed to say.

“Well, how about this,” Wade says, sitting down next to him and looking expectantly over. “Put this on for me,” he begins, picking up the silicone thing and handing it to Peter, “and anything in the kitchen is yours.”

Peter thinks dully back to the moment when Wade had offered to fully pay for all of his classes, and wonders if the privilege of eating out of his fridge is really that much of an offer. But his stomach gives another helpful growl, and he sighs. It doesn’t look painful, he tells himself. And people did this all the time, right? There’s a market for it.

If the worst comes to the worst, he tells himself, it won’t be permanent. And if it _really_ comes down to it… Wade won’t want to harm him, he reminds himself. Of course he won’t. So. So if it’s bad, all he’ll have to do is say so.

Plan in mind, Peter gives a short nod.

“Okay,” he says, looking down at the surprisingly light silicone device. “Okay, so. How do I…?”

“Here,” Wade says, taking it from him. He takes the ring part first, and tugs at Peter’s sweats without a word of warning.

Peter jolts back- the instant dual sensation of Wade’s hand grabbing around at his cock and the plug shifting inside him sends a little twitch of arousal down his spine. But before he can even register it, he feels the ring slide back past the base of his cock, feels Wade tugging his balls up and over it-

And then it’s sat snugly around him. It’s tight, he thinks, but not tight enough to hurt. Just enough to give it a bit of bite. The little tease of arousal sags as he tries to get used to the sensation, shifting his hips a little to see what movement changes what feeling.

“And then,” Wade says, reaching for the second part of the device. “This one goes… here.”

The hollow cock fits over his own, a little big for his size, but that’s okay. It slides down until the base brushes against his balls, just barely. And then Wade tugs the drawer open and rummages around for a second- and pulls out a little padlock and key.

Something in Peter’s chest panics a bit at the sight of them, but he forces himself to stay still. Wade slips the padlock down under his sweats, and Peter hears it _click_ shut.

“There,” Wade says, satisfied. “All done.”

Peter doesn’t look. He’s not sure he wants to see himself like this, practically tied up like a gift.

It’s not so bad, he thinks. At least, it doesn’t feel too bad. The cool silicone is odd against his skin, but he knows it will warm up pretty quickly. The only problem seems to be that his cock isn’t slick anymore, but dry and sticky. Every time he shifts his legs, the silicone chafes a bit against him.

“Um,” he says, trying to sit up a little straighter. “Do you think you could, um. Maybe. Lube?”

At the last word, he feels his ears go red.

Wade slaps a hand to his forehead, comically. “Baby boy, of _course-_ oh, how could I have forgotten?”

He wrenches the drawer open and pulls out a little bottle- again, it looks fresh and unopened. He hands it to Peter.

“Feel free to use as much as you want,” he says, and gives a kissing noise. “No touching the plug, of course.”

“Of course,” Peter echoes.

Wade carries him out onto the couch and spends the next twenty minutes making breakfast. He hand delivers it to the couch himself, and Peter feels the nervousness wash away the moment he takes his first bite of bacon. It’s real bacon, too, the good stuff.

“Better?” Wade asks, when he finishes and flops onto his stomach on the couch, propping his head up with his arms as he shifts his hips awkwardly. The awkwardness of having so much _stuff_ around down there has somewhat receded as he’s gotten used to it. It’s almost nice, like white noise. Half of his brain is dedicated to the new sensations, leaving the other half of his brain to just wander.

“Mm,” he says, nodding.

“Good,” Wade says, patting the top of his head again. It warms Peter, this time, instead of triggering his anger. “I’m sorry, baby boy, I should have known you were hungry. I forget, see.”

“You… forget,” Peter says slowly.

“I don’t _need_ food,” Wade explains. “But I eat when there’s good food. Eating is fun!” He winks again.

Peter blinks. “Wait,” he says. “Wait, so- so last night, that wasn’t- you didn’t _need-”_

“You’re so cute,” Wade hums, rubbing his thumb in Peter’s hair now. “Naw, I just wanted to watch you.”

And something in Peter shifts- something that isn’t the plug. Part of him is almost annoyed that that whole mess had been for nothing, technically. But the vast, vast majority of him is swelling with pride that that had all been for _him._ That Wade had wanted to see _him_ like that.

And now Wade wants to keep Peter here, all to himself.

And that, well.

That changes things a little.

Suddenly the device seems a little nicer- comforting, even. Every nudge it makes against his skin is a reminder- a reminder of how Wade had touched him before, a reminder of all the touches that are yet to come. A reminder that he’d _done it,_ that Wade _wants him._

“Well,” Wade says, “I’d better get going.”

“Okay,” Peter says, voice significantly brighter. “Don’t, you know, die.”

“I’ll do my best.” Wade winks. He kneels down beside the couch and presses a kiss to Peter’s lips.

Maybe, Peter thinks, if they had been that sort of couple that had dinner regularly and wished one another good days at work, maybe then this would have been one of those short little kisses. But no, this is Wade. More specifically, this is Wade’s tongue. It shoves right past his lips and licks back to the roof of his mouth. He pulls off with a satisfied noise, then presses his wet lips onto Peter’s neck and bites.

After making a little mark beside the mural of love bites already there, he stands up and wipes his mouth.

“Shame on you, Petey,” he hums. “You’re going to make me late.”

Peter wiggles his hips, biting his bottom lip and looking up at Wade with what he’s pretty sure are blowjob eyes.

“Catch the next bus?” he offers, and licks his lips.

Wade gives a low little moan. “Baby boy, you tempt me,” he says, and shakes his head. “Nice try. But you’ll have to wait until Daddy comes home.”

Peter sticks out his bottom lip, still looking up at Wade as he unlocks the door.

“Baby boy,” Wade repeats teasingly. “I know you can do it. Just wait for me, like a good boy. You can do that, can’t you?”

Peter gives his best pitiful sigh, rolling onto his side to face Wade. “All right,” he says, trying to frown. But the grin that’s blossoming out of his chest won’t let him. “But don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wade promises with a wink, and then he’s gone.

* * *

 

“So,” Tony says, pressing a finger to the bridge of his sunglasses as he scans the crowd.

Nearly every table has a gaggle of people around it- which is saying something for an outside patio in the rain, even if it has a colorful awning keeping it dry. He has no doubt the food here is excellent; he takes Pepper here whenever their days off coincide.

“So what?” Wade Wilson asks, leaning forward on the table and raising an eyebrow.

Tony wrinkles his nose.

“It’s the face, right?” Wade says, raising the other eyebrow and scrunching his forehead up further.

Tony cocks his head to the side.

“If you squint,” he says, “it almost looks like a bear.”

Wade snorts.

“You wanted to see me,” he says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs.

“Right,” Tony says, nodding. “Yeah, so. About the missing persons case I asked you about.”

“Sure,” Wade says.

“I know you said you’d look,” Tony says. “But could you maybe look. Harder.”

“Getting worried?” Wade asks, mouth twisting into a little smile.

“Barnes and Noble are.”

Wade snorts. “That’s a new one.”

“I’ve been using it for months, I don’t think they get it,” Tony sighs. “They went down before that place went up, and they came back in time just to see it disappear again. Shame.”

“It’s a crap bookstore, anyway,” Wade shrugs.

“It just- has- problems,” Tony says.

“So you’re worried about Parker,” Wade prompts. “Sorry, no. _They’re_ worried about Parker.”

“Yes and no,” Tony says. “Yes, they are. And no, I’m not _not_ worried.”

“You are?” Wade says, sounding mildly surprised. “Why?”

“Well,” Tony says. “Well, I just- I mean, I wouldn’t be worried if he left on his own, which I think he did. I mean, there’s nothing like a sign of a struggle, and he does that weird thing where he tells his parents when he goes out on hero business. So, I mean, unless something managed to get through his window and take him out without a fight, it doesn’t seem likely.”

“And yet.”

Tony sighs. “And yet.” He runs a hand over his face. “I don’t know. It’s a possibility.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing that might make you feel better,” Wade says thoughtfully. “He’s made a name for himself- not a huge name, but still. There’s folks around here that would _love_ to see his head on a platter. A few groups of them. Like a fan club, but for murder.”

Tony frowns. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“My point being,” Wade continues, “if anyone _had_ managed to get him, they’d be getting the word out right about now. Celebrating with the other villains, whatever. Showing off.” He shrugs. “And I haven’t heard any news about that, and you know the sort of people I hang out with.”

“Well,” Tony says. “Well. Okay.”

“What,” Wade says. “You think he can’t take care of himself?”

“It’s not that,” Tony says, shaking his head. “But, come on. A superhero, at his age?” He sighs again, shaking his head. “There’s a reason that most people in our line of work end up in teams, and it’s not just because we’re stronger together.” He looks thoughtfully down at his warped spoon reflection. “If there’s people out there that can take one of _us_ on their own, he’s going to look like a toothpick just waiting to be snapped. And it’s not that I don’t think he’s strong- he is, I’ve seen him train- but it’s just- what- are you doing?”

Wade looks up from his phone, two fingers pressed to his right ear. Tony can just make out a black plastic earpiece under his fingers, and he frowns- clearly frustrated that he hadn’t noticed it in the first place.

“What?” Wade says, still holding the earpiece in place.

“I was in the middle of- of a monologue,” Tony splutters.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry. Just checking something.” And then he squints, one thumb still hovering over his phone. “A monologue-monologue?” he asks. “Or did you just mean a bunch of words?”

“A- what?” Tony stares. “I just- I was in the middle of something.”

“Oh.” Wade frowns for a split second, and then perks up, clearly having just heard something important. “Yeah, right, sorry. One sec.” He looks back down at his phone and taps it another few times.

“Are you… playing a game?” Tony sits up a little straighter, trying to see the screen.

“Mm,” Wade says. “You could call it that.” He flips his phone back over and slips it into his pocket, then sits forward in his chair again, giving Tony an expectant look. “So,” he says. “You want me to find him.”

 _“Yes,”_ Tony says, exasperatedly. “And I have a few notes from Mr. High And Mighty.”

“All right, let’s hear ‘em.”

“Number one, no hurting,” Tony says. “Number two, no hiring anyone else to find him. Number three, no drugging.” He shrugs. “I told them you were a convicted criminal.”

“Fair enough,” Wade says. “Sure, what else?”

“There’s a bunch of others,” Tony says, “but they basically just boil down to ‘don’t touch a hair on his head’. Look, as long as you find him and bring him back alive, that’s enough- _would you stop that?”_

Wade holds a finger up, tapping madly on his phone.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “S’ really important.”

_“More important than finding Parker?”_

“Yep.”

Nearly fifteen full seconds later, Wade pockets the phone again. “Find Parker, got it,” he says.

Tony sinks into his chair, staring up at the awning. “Or at least, just. Make sure he’s not dead. That’s. That’s all.”

“Aww.” Wade sticks his lower lip out. “Don’t want him back?”

“No, no, not that.” Tony waves his words away. “But I just think some time out could be good for him. You know, I’d get it if he left on his own. Hell, I was running away half the time when I was his age. But I wasn’t a superhero with a city full of enemies out for my blood.” He shoots a look over at Wade. “And it’s kind of fun to watch the StarBucks crew panicking.”

“They’re panicking?” Wade asks, suddenly sounding interested. “Ooh, that’s interesting. I thought they’d just be sad. They’re so good at the moping thing. Years of practice, you know.”

“Oh, no, they’re moping,” Tony assures him. “It’s mostly moping. And I’d think it was annoying, but honestly I’m just so used to it.” He shrugs. “Cap wouldn’t stop looking dramatically out of windows long enough to hold a conversation when he moved into the tower at first, like he was stuck in some infinite loop of tragic flashbacks. It was infuriating.”

“See,” Wade says, holding a hand out. “See, this is why I can’t trust you.”

“What?”

“You say things like _that,”_ Wade groans. “And for a minute I think you _know.”_

“Know?” Tony frowns. “Know what?”

Wade sighs. “Exactly.”

* * *

For the first few hours, Peter has no problem busying himself.

First he sets about cleaning the kitchen, washing up both his breakfast dishes and the stacks of old plates in the sink. It’s interesting how relaxing it is to wash them now, when it always seems like an uphill battle whenever Bucky or Steve tell him to clean. Hell, he’ll leave dishes in his own room just so he can spare himself the nagging. And god forbid they catch him washing, or he’ll never hear the end of it.

But this?

Humming along to some showtune he can’t remember the words or characters of, as he scrubs away at the plates, he feels relaxed, occupied. Half of his brain is dedicated to the dishes, half of it is still distracted by the constant nudges between his legs.

It takes a little less than an hour to get them all done, and when he fills the washing machine he sets it to go, drying his hands on the sweats rather than on the disgusting looking hand towel hanging on the oven handle. Kitchen done, he tries to think of something else to do.

It feels like a weekend day. Like he has nothing to do, no one to see, nothing to worry about. But there’s an edge to it, like these hours are going to be precious- few and far between. He settles back into the couch, just lying there and thinking, enjoying the silence.

But that, too, expires.

Normally on a day like this, he’d sit himself down in front of his computer and work on his latest project- either for school or for his Spiderman costume. But his computer is at home, along with everything in his lab table and his backpack. He doesn’t even have his phone.

It’s not until the third time he checks the clock on the microwave, until he sees that it’s been three hours since Wade left, that it happens.

The silence permeating through the apartment is shattered in a single instant as every nerve in Peter’s body comes to life. Not only can he hear the sound, but he can _feel_ it, feel it rattling through his bones up and down his spine.

Oh God, he thinks. It’s. It’s.

It’s the plug.

It’s _on._

He realizes this at the same moment that he realizes he’s no longer standing. His knees have lost their will to work, and he’s kneeling by the microwave and the oven, thighs trembling. He can _hear_ it, he can hear it as it buzzes louder than his goddamn electric toothbrush.

And all at once, he’s very grateful for the fact that he’s sixteen, and for the fact that Wade had obviously bought this device with someone bigger in mind, because he thinks his cock might have actually squeezed off, otherwise. But as it happens, it doesn’t. It presses up against the front walls of the silicone cage as the plug buzzes away.

“Shit,” he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fucking- fuck-”

And then, very suddenly, it stops.

Peter collapses onto the floor, legs shaking, breath coming hard.

That _bastard._

And Peter would be ashamed of himself if he caught himself hoping that Wade would only do that once. So he hobbles back to the bedroom, knowing full well he has no intentions to leave it soon, and kneels on the bed. He chastises himself a little for not thinking to change the sheets, when he’d been so bored and looking for something to do. Not that he doesn’t mind the smell- and really, he should, but he just doesn’t.

But to his enormous surprise, nothing happens. Not for a few minutes, as Peter waits. And then he sighs.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “May as well check the laundry.” Because hadn’t Wade put his clothes through the wash? Christ, he thinks to himself. It feels like weeks ago that he’d first come to Wade’s door.

He slips off the bed with a little groan, and before he can even begin to wonder where exactly the laundry machine is-

The plug flares up to life again, rumbling around mercilessly.

This time, he falls back onto the bed instead of the floor, spreads his legs, and tries to wait it out.

He thinks it would probably be a little more torturous if he were used to the cage in the first place. As it happens, he’s entertained enough by the new sensation of his cock trying its damndest to get hard, and bumping up against the silicone walls whenever it tries. The cage can’t stop it completely, though- either because the horniness of a sixteen year old boy could be considered an unstoppable force, or because the cage is clearly sized for someone older than he is.

The ring is snug, though, tight around his balls. Not too tight to hurt, but enough to stop them from doing what they do best, and he rolls onto his stomach, frustrated.

“Come on,” he mutters, squirming on his back. “Come _on.”_

And the plug dies again.

It’s an interesting juxtaposition.

When the plug is on, his mind veers into a specific lane, filling him with thoughts of Wade and words, and he closes his eyes and imagines it’s something else inside him instead of a synthetic vibrating plug, and he’s close, he’s so close, god, can he just-

When the plug is off, he slumps into paranoia.

Since coming here, he hasn’t had much time to himself to just think. And now that he does, he wishes Wade were here to take that luxury away again. Because when he’s lying with a plug in his ass on a bed that isn’t his, waiting for Wade to come home, he can’t help but think that he’s lying here, with a _plug in his ass,_ on a bed that _isn’t his,_ waiting for _Deadpool to come home._

It’s more than a little disconcerting.

Huffing, Peter reaches over to the bedside table and snatches the bottle of lube, uncaps it, and adds a generous amount around the silicone, just to make sure.

Instantly, the snug fit around his balls is lessened, as the silicone stops catching on the skin. He sighs comfortably and flops back down onto the mattress, waiting.

When nothing happens for quite some time, he snorts.

“Well?” he challenges the air. “I’m waiting.”

Instantly, it starts buzzing again. Peter blinks up at the ceiling, a new thought slipping into his mind.

“Um,” he says. “Wade?”

The buzzing stops.

_Shit._

Peter rubs the heel of his palm into his eyes and gives a low groan, because of course. Of _course_ Wade is listening.

But even though he’s listening, he doesn’t seem to be doing anything. On the contrary, Peter waits in silence for the next round, forces himself to stop clenching so tightly around the plug, so the next round will be easier. But nothing comes, not a single thing. Nearly three full minutes pass as Peter stays silent, not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do- or indeed, supposed to say.

He knows, now, that he must not be allowed to leave the bedroom. Wade had effectively stopped him in his tracks a moment ago when he’d tried to do laundry, so he must want Peter to stay. And really, Peter can’t complain much about that.

When he feels the edge of arousal start to ebb a bit, he panics.

“Um. Hey,” he says, feeling a little stupid for addressing the air. “Hey, Wade?”

The plug gives a tiny, half-second buzz. _Oh, for fuck’s sake,_ Peter thinks.

“Do you think you could,” Peter starts, but can’t really bring himself to finish. “Um. You know.”

Again, a barely-there little buzz that dies before it can even finish.

“Come on,” Peter whines. “Please?”

The plug gives a longer, more appreciative buzz this time. Peter sighs. It’s going to be like _that._

“Please,” he tries again, digging his hips down into the mattress, trying to push the plug in a little deeper. The little spark of arousal that had nearly extinguished is back now, egging him on. Logically, he knows the silicone cage will keep him from actually coming, but he can’t help _wanting_ it.

The plug gives the same long burst, but stops far too soon for comfort. As if it’s saying _you’ll have to do a little better than that._

 _“Please,”_ Peter whines, dragging out the word a little more and trying to sound younger. “I _need_ it.”

That gets him a reward. The plug turns up a notch- which Peter hadn’t known was even possible in the first place- and buzzes happily away. Peter lifts his hips just right- and yelps as the thing bumps up against his prostate. Apparently satisfied with this, the plug turns up another notch and drives home.

Terrified now that the thing could turn off at any moment, Peter tries to keep talking.

“Hah- fuck-” he groans, breathing heavily and noisily. It’s so _frustrating_ not to be able to reach down and rub himself out at the same time. But the thought of losing the plug, losing the wonderful, _wonderful_ buzzing is even more frustrating.

And lose it he does.

“Come on!” Peter shouts to the ceiling, as the plug stills again. “Come on, come _on!”_

He squirms, legs rubbing together, and takes a deep breath. If Wade’s playing like this, then Peter thinks he knows what it’s going to take to make him do what Peter wants.

It’s a testament to just how much of a blushing-virgin-type Peter is that even though he knows for a fact that no one else is here, he still goes red and has to take a minute to catch his breath and configure the words in his head.

“Could you please,” he tries again, “turn it back on?”

Another stretch of silence. Peter closes his eyes.

“…Daddy?”

* * *

It’s nearly impossible to tell when the sun actually sets from an apartment so buried in buildings. The sun doesn’t reach through the windows, save for the early morning. So the fact that the apartment is cast in shadow means near to nothing when the front door swings open again.

What does mean something, however, is the clock on the microwave as heavy-toed boots _clunk_ past it without stopping. The little green numbers read _2:14._

The boots _thunk_ as they hit another door, which swings open without the slightest trace of protest, and the _clunk clunk_ is met with an answering _buzzzzzzzzz._

“Wade,” Peter gasps, from the mattress.

Wade doesn’t offer a single word at first. He stands in the doorway, just watching as Peter squirms his visibly slick legs and looks up at him from where he’s lying, flat on his back. After a few moments, Peter changes tactics. With visible effort, he pushes himself up, crawls onto his hands and knees, and plops down on his stomach, head at the foot of the bed.

Wade slips his hand into his pocket.

“Wade,” Peter says again, voice strained.

Wade’s thumb shifts in his pocket, and the buzzing intensifies.

Whatever words Peter was about to say are swallowed down by the needy groan that leaves his lips. His legs shudder, even though they aren’t tasked with holding anything up, and his ass almost seems like it’s vibrating along with the plug.

“Please,” Peter gasps, still fighting to look up at Wade.

With the mask on, he can’t tell if Wade is looking back at him with interest or boredom.

“Please,” he repeats, as his left leg twitches involuntarily. “Please, I need- I-”

The plug turns higher again.

“I _need_ it,” Peter implores. “I did what you wanted- I- I’ve been waiting for _hours.”_

Wade says nothing.

“Been waiting for you,” Peter adds, and something that feels suspiciously like tears begins to prick in the corners of his eyes. “All day.”

“It’s hardly been a day,” Wade says, taking a step forward.

“S’ been hours,” Peter says sulkily.

“Oh, I know,” Wade says, reaching down with a glove covered hand and brushing sweat-slick hair out of Peter’s eyes. “I know. And you’ve done wonderfully.”

“I have?”

“Mm, yes.” Wade slides the hand down to cup Peter’s face, and digs his thumb between Peter’s lips. Without hesitating, Peter slides his tongue over the surface of the glove’s tip and suckles wetly.

But he doesn’t seem intent on doing anything other than just standing there- and Peter knows what that means. It’s odd- saying it in the middle of everything had felt natural. But saying it now, at the beginning- it feels more like a blow to his pride.

He takes a deep breath.

“I’ve been waiting for Daddy to come home,” he says.

It works.

Wade tugs him up off his stomach, onto his knees, and shoves him onto his back. Peter’s head smacks back against the headboard so hard that it takes him a few moments to open his eyes again. When he does, he sees Wade buried between his legs, fiddling with the silicone cage.

There’s a tiny _click_ that he can just make out over the sound of the plug, and then-

And then it’s off.

Instantly, he tries to move- and instantly, two hands hold his legs down so he can’t.

“Please,” Peter whines- and then, against his better judgement- “Daddy.”

“No,” Wade says firmly. “Not yet.”

“You left it on for hours,” Peter points out. “For _five hours.”_

“And look at you,” Wade purrs, still holding him down by his legs. Without the silicone cage, Peter is rock-hard and leaking again. And the way Wade’s holding him down almost gets the plug high enough to brush his prostate again- _almost._ He squirms, biting his lip.

“Can I just-”

“No,” Wade says. “Not yet.”

Peter lifts his head up and gives Wade his best pleading look. “Why not?”

“Because where’s the fun in that?”

Peter dully thinks to himself that coming right now would be a lot of fun, actually. But he keeps his mouth shut.

“Now, here’s what we’re going to do,” Wade says, and reaches into his pocket. The plug dies down until it’s silent again, and before Peter can get used to it, fingers are slipping around his hole, pulling it out. It slides out with a wet _pop,_ and Peter lets out a breath as the tension is finally gone. Wade sets the thing down on his bedside table and hops onto the bed, legs over one side.

Peter closes his eyes and waits.

The bed dips down beside him a few moments later and Peter looks. Wade’s just lying on his back, arms over his head. After a few seconds of nothing, he pats his lap expectantly.

“Go on,” Wade prompts.

Peter gets shakily to his hands and knees and crawls over.

Wade does and says nothing when he slides between his legs, which seems to be the cue to keep going. Knees trembling, Peter reaches down and undoes the clip of Wade’s belt.

Wade threads his fingers in Peter’s hair.

Peter tugs the waistband of Wade’s jeans down along with the belt, and blinks in surprise at the lack of any other layers in the way. Instead of a pair of underwear or boxers, Wade’s cock jumps out to meet him. He’s not as hard as Peter is- but then again, he hadn’t just spent five hours with a vibrating plug inside him, had he?

Something slides down Peter’s ass.

He yelps, sitting up straight, and slaps a hand behind him. It touches something wet and warm, and he panics for a moment before remembering.

The plug had been in for a reason.

Come trickles out of his hole, dripping down his ass as he fruitlessly tries to clench it shut.

“Don’t you worry,” he hears Wade hum, and then he can feel fingers alongside his own, lazily swiping around and catching the stray trails of come, pushing them back in again. “Keep going. You’re on the right track.”

He can hear it. Every time Wade pushes his fingers back into his hole, he can hear it squelch in protest, trying to push out the gobs of come threatening to leak back out again.

Trying not to collapse, he looks back down at Wade’s cock. His tongue swirls in his mouth in anticipation, and he blinks in surprise as he finds that his mouth is actually watering. Not wanting to waste any more time, he bends down and sinks as far as he can, giving a little hum.

Wade sighs, the hand in his hair starting to move. It brushes his hair out of his eyes again and again- as if he’s being petted. The fingers around his hole don’t stop- Wade slides two inside and scissors them open, inviting another glob of come to come spilling out, and then he rubs his thumb up to catch it, holds Peter’s hole open with his first two fingers, and pushes it back inside.

Peter slurps around Wade’s cock, tongue working furiously. At this angle, he can’t quite make it all the way down, even if he chokes. But he tries his best, sliding his tongue in quick stripes up the sides, pulling off to suckle on the head a bit, swallowing down the dribbles of precome that leak out. He’s a little more used to it now, after everything.

“Good,” he hears Wade murmur, as he adds a third finger in alongside the first two. Peter has no doubt he could take whatever Wade wanted, now- four fingers, even. Christ, maybe five. He’s been sitting with a plug in him for five hours, he’s open and slick as anything. “Very good.”

The three fingers pull out- Peter whines- and _smack_ against his ass, sending him jolting forward half a foot. Wade’s cock slips out of his mouth and he gasps, ass clenching and unclenching from surprise.

“Come here,” Wade purrs, and he sits back on his knees, unsure of what to do.

Wade pulls him into a kneeling position, facing away from him, with his ass in the air.

“Look at _that,”_ Wade breathes. And before Peter can prepare himself, his hand comes down again with a _smack._

The little flash of pain sends something shooting right down his spine and into his cock. He gives a little cry and looks down to see that he’s leaking harder than ever, gushing precome down onto the mattress in a slow, steady stream.

“So pretty and pink,” Wade coos, bringing his hands down and grabbing Peter’s cheeks, rubbing them, thumbing them over. He pulls them apart, and Peter feels cold air brush over his hole. He shivers. “So pretty. My pretty little boy.”

“Daddy,” Peter says without thinking. “Please- I need-”

And he tugs Peter up again, into his lap, and before Peter can quite tell what’s happening, lines himself up and shoves forward until he’s buried, completely, inside Peter.

Wade gives his hips a little circle as he leans over and bites down on Peter’s neck from behind. Peter’s mouth opens but no sound comes out, just a rush of air.

“Come on, baby boy,” Wade says, and lies down on the mattress. Peter, still sitting up, quivers. “Show me what you can do.”

It’s a bit difficult to ride Wade when his legs feel like they might just fall off, but Peter manages. He starts with circles, grinding down on Wade.

“Good,” Wade coaxes. “Good boy. Look at you, so full. You love it, don’t you?”

Peter’s a little too preoccupied to get out a “yes”, but he thinks the sound he makes translates well enough.

“Come here,” Wade says, and grabs Peter’s hips to lift him off. “Look at me.”

Peter turns, trying not to accidentally kick Wade in the face, before sinking back down again. Wade sighs, giving his own hips a little thrust up.

“Go on,” he says. “Go on, you can do it. Baby boy, I know you can do it.”

And hell if that doesn’t make Peter want to try. He lifts himself up a few inches- as much as his quivering legs will allow- and drops back down with a little grunt, eyes shut tight.

“There we go,” Wade says happily, reaching over and rubbing his hands over Peter’s thighs. “There we go, that was perfect.”

Peter tries again. And again. Lifting himself with his legs until he can’t take it anymore, and sitting back down, fucking himself slowly on Wade’s cock. This time, there are no fingers to keep the dribbles of come from sliding out, and he can feel Wade’s cock get slicker and slicker as he moves.

And then something clicks. He’s no longer fighting to make every movement- he finds a rhythm. He doesn’t pull himself up all the way as he lifts his hips, but only a couple inches. Dropping down from that is quicker. After two more experimental thrusts, he finds the perfect rhythm.

“Yes,” Wade says, as Peter starts moving a little faster. _“Yessss.”_

“I can’t,” Peter manages, leaning down and bracing himself with a hand on the mattress. “-for long.”

“Keep going,” Wade orders. “Baby boy, keep going, you can do it.”

“I _can’t,”_ Peter whines.

“You can,” Wade says. “You can, baby boy. Do it.”

Peter’s legs are trembling so much that the bed begins to shake alongside him.

“I can’t,” he breathes, as he tries to pick up speed. “I can’t, I-”

“That’s it,” Wade says, “that’s it. Show Daddy what you can do, that’s it.”

Peter manages to make five more thrusts before he falls forward, breathing hard. His legs feel like spaghetti, weak and loose and trembling, and his arms aren’t faring any better. Breath coming in sharp bursts, he tries to move his hips again. This time, his cock rubs up against Wade’s stomach, against his shirt.

“Ohhhh, oh,” Wade says, patting Peter’s back consolingly. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Peter can’t help it. He _can’t._

“Daddy,” he whines, feeling a couple more tears trickle out. “Daddy, _please.”_

“Come on,” Wade says, sitting up and helping Peter up. “Come on, baby boy, let’s take care of you. You’ve been so good.”

“Good?” Peter repeats.

“Good, so good,” Wade assures him. He tugs the mask up over his nose and kisses Peter’s cheeks. “You’ve been so patient for me.”

Peter nods, hips giving an involuntary jerk.

“Come down here,” Wade says, turning them over. He pulls out- Peter gives a yelp- and turns Peter onto his stomach, running a hand down his back. “There we go, sweetheart. Daddy’s got you.”

Wade grabs Peter’s cheeks and spreads them lovingly, thumbing up and down his cleft, edging at his rim. Peter shivers every time the tip of his finger nudges past the ring of muscle, teasing inside.

“Sorry, baby boy,” Wade laughs. “But I can never resist teasing you. You’re so cute, you know.”

Peter buries his face in his arms and blushes.

“Just sit tight,” Wade says softly. “You’ve been so good for me, baby boy. So good.”

Peter barely feels the stretch as Wade pushes in again. All he can feel is the sensation of being full again, and the slight push up into the pillows lining the top of the bed.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, as Wade fucks into him. It’s slower than he had expected, but faster than he ever could have managed on his own. And after hours and hours of nothing but teasing, he’s just happy to lose himself in the welcome bliss of just being _fucked._

His cock ruts against the mattress, every time Wade thrusts forward, and as much as he wants to reach down and stroke himself until he comes, he waits. The barely-there friction is enough for now, he tells himself. And besides, he’s pretty sure Wade wants him to wait.

Sure enough, it’s not long before Wade speeds up, whacking the bed into the wall with considerably more force. Peter braces himself, trying to rock back in time with Wade, and clenches as hard as he can. Wade pounds forward one more time and gives a low moan as he comes.

Peter clenches obediently as Wade pulls out, keeping his hole as tightly shut as he can. And sure enough, a moment later, he feels the familiar press of the plug against him. He lets it slide in and lets out a breath when it breaches him, finally relaxing.

“Good boy,” Wade purrs, kissing both of his cheeks and giving them a little swat.

Peter sighs happily, waiting.

Wade squeezes his ass again, kissing each cheek. Peter makes a little keening whine, but Wade pulls off.

“Daddy’s going to make dinner,” he says.

Peter sits up and twists around, staring horrified at Wade. “But,” he says. “But I-”

“Ah, ah, baby boy,” Wade says, shaking his head. “Not until after dinner.”

He wrenches his jeans back up and buckles them, humming to himself. Peter stares.

He can’t. He _can’t._ Not after Peter had spent the entire day waiting patiently, not after all that, he can’t just-

“Come on,” Wade says impatiently, as he reaches the doorway. “Out. I want you on the couch.”

“Why?” Peter asks, knowing the answer.

“Baby boy,” Wade says with a wink. “Do you want the cage again?”

“No!” Peter says quickly, sitting up straighter. “I’ll come, I’ll come.”

“Not until dessert, you won’t.” Wade laughs, and pushes the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i knowwww chapter breaks in porn are the WORST im sorry  
> but i had to ok this was getting too long  
> dont worry the next chap is coming i swear (be prepared, its a special one as a thanks for being so patient)  
> thanks to Ksenia_Rodermell for the suggestion of a chastity device (someone else suggested it earlier but u were the one that convinced me)  
> smut requests are accepted- no promises, it depends if it rubs me the right way or not, but feel free to ask if theres a particular kink u want scratched  
>  ~~(also thanks to the one bookmarker who said this fic made them genuinely uncomfortable- ive never felt so proud)~~


	9. (SMUT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was too impatient to wait to post this so here u go

Wade makes pasta.

Which means that Wade gets out a pot, pours water, puts it on the stove, waits for it to boil, adds the pasta, gets out a pan, _makes sauce,_ drains the first pot, sets it back down, adds the sauce, and then serves it.

All the while, Peter’s sat on a chair beside the kitchen table, waiting patiently.

As the plug vibrates inside him.

He almost comes twice- the first time when the plug comes on again, the second when he looks down and sees himself dripping all over the wooden chair. The second time, he actually reaches down instinctively to grab himself, but Wade spots him.

Wade makes him bend over the couch and smacks his ass fifteen times in retaliation- which really doesn’t make his cock any less desperate. When he sits back down, his ass is burning, and he knows it’s probably bright pink, if not red.

When at last Wade brings food down to the table, he’s too impatient to eat it slowly. The sooner this meal is over, the sooner he can come.

But Wade. Wade eats like it’s the last meal of his life. He savors every single forkful.

Peter finishes his plate off within minutes, slurping down noodles and sauce noisily, until his plate is nearly clean again. And after a moment of thought, he goes for seconds. Because really, he hasn’t eaten much all day.

Between the heavy plug inside him and the two helpings of pasta, he feels full enough to burst.

And then he realizes that he _actually_ feels full enough to burst.

He goes scarlet.

Wade quirks an eyebrow up as Peter looks away with a red face, legs crossing uncomfortably.

“Baby boy?” he asks. “What’s the matter?”

“Um,” Peter says. He’d give anything to go back to a time when saying ‘Daddy’ back had been the most challenging thing to say. “It’s nothing,” he tries.

“Nonsense,” Wade says, setting his fork down. “What’s on your mind?”

“Well,” Peter says. “Um. It’s just. I kind of.” He looks at his lap, closing his eyes. “Have to.”

_“Oh!”_

Peter’s heart thuds.

“Next door past the bedroom,” Wade says, and picks his fork back up.

Peter blinks. “Can I…?”

Wade nods. “Of course.” He gives a wink. “Don’t worry, baby boy. I’m not into that.”

Relief floods Peter from head to toe, filling out into his fingertips and feet. He scoots out of his chair and hobbles to the bathroom, more aware now than ever that he is still completely naked in this house.

When he comes back to the table, it’s been cleared of dishes and Wade is nowhere to be found. He frowns, checking over at the couch, but there’s still no Wade. Curious, he backtracks and heads to the bedroom, pushing open the door.

The bedside drawer is open, and Wade is rifling lazily through his collection.

“Come on, get in here,” he says when he sees Peter waiting awkwardly in the doorway. “I’ve got a treat for you.”

Peter walks over to the bed and climbs back on, hoping to god Wade doesn’t mean the silicone cage again. “A treat?” he says. “What, uh, kind of treat?”

“I thought you deserved a little something special,” Wade explains, and pulls out three different toys. “Pick your favorite.”

Peter looks. The first toy is long and plastic with a button on the base, clearly a vibrator. It’s got a wide head, but the rest of it is unremarkable. The second one is a little shorter than the first, but much wider. The entire thing looks like plastic, and it’s got ripples down the sides. There’s a dial on the bottom, and Peter can make out a line of numbers counting up to ten. The third one is the same string of beads Peter remembers Wade sliding inside him. His cock gives a little twitch at the memory.

He points at them without hesitation.

Wade picks up the two vibrators and drops them back into the drawer, humming softly.

Peter feels, honestly, a little disappointed. Is this it? He knows what the beads feel like- and though they do feel amazing, he has to admit he’d been expecting something a little more. After all, Wade _had_ said ‘treat.’

“Come here,” Wade says, pointing to the head of the bed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake- here, let me.”

Wade handles him, setting him down on his back with his feet propped up against the headboard.

“What,” he says, but Wade runs him over with a hurried _shh._ Peter blinks up at Wade’s upside-down face from where he’s lying, feeling a little stupid.

“Trust me, baby boy,” Wade says.

A sentence echoes in Peter’s head, one he remembers hearing, what feels like years ago.

“Okay,” he says, nodding.

Satisfied, Wade grabs Peter’s legs and pulls them up so he’s bent at a 90-degree angle, ass up against the bottom of the headboard. Peter opens his mouth, about to ask what the hell Wade thinks he’s doing, and Wade tugs his legs back.

It’s like he’s being folded in half, almost.

With his spider-powers, he’s as flexible as a gymnast. Peter’s pretty sure he could twist himself into a pretzel if anyone told him to. But Wade just seems to want him folded over on his back, so he relaxes and lets his legs stretch back.

“Oh, hello again,” Wade says, and it takes Peter a second to realize Wade’s talking to his hole, not to him. He taps the bottom of the plug with a finger, then tugs at it. At this angle, Peter clenches a little more instinctively. The plug fights Wade the whole way, but it can’t resist forever. After a few tries, it slips out obediently and Wade sets it on the bedside table. He reaches for the beads next and Peter bits his lip, getting ready.

“You remember the rules, baby boy,” Wade says, and Peter does his best to nod. It’s a little hard when all of his weight is concentrated on the upper half of his body, but he manages.

The first three beads go in without protest, slipping inside him like they belong there. Peter feels again the strange fullness that they give him, rocking around inside him at random.

The fourth bead is a little tougher. It gets a quarter of the way past his rim before slipping out again, and Wade tugs the third out as punishment. He reaches up under Peter and massages his stomach, then tries again. This time, third and fourth beads go in effortlessly.

The fifth bead Wade holds at its widest point for a full twenty seconds. Peter clenches and unclenches around it, feeling stretched beyond belief- before Wade gives in and pushes it inside along the others.

It’s this that sparks the first little flame of worry.

Wade had said ‘treat.’ Surely he’d want to milk this moment as long as he could, right? What is he planning, if stuffing five beads inside Peter is something he wants to get over with as quickly as he can?

“Ready, baby boy?”

“Yes,” Peter says, not sure what he’s supposed to be ready for.

“Look at me,” Wade says, and Peter lets his head rest on the mattress, staring up at Wade. “Open those pretty little lips for me,” Wade says.

Peter drops his jaw, expecting the now familiar feeling of gloved fingers on his tongue.

And then he feels three different things all at once.

His legs are tugged down until his feet drop almost to the mattress, the beads clunk around inside him as his entire body folds in two, and something hot and slick brushes his lips.

“There we go,” Wade breathes, and a hand rests on his lower back, which is facing the ceiling. “There we go, take it.”

Wade presses down on Peter’s back, and Peter’s own cock slides between his lips and rests on his tongue. Another push, and half his own cock is stuffed down his mouth.

He tries to make a sound of surprise, but it’s muffled. Wade snorts, still holding him down.

“Sorry, what was that?” he asks. Peter glares at him as best he can. Wade laughs again. “Couldn’t catch that, baby boy. Try again.”

Peter gives a frustrated groan- which shoots a vibration _right_ down his cock, shuddering down, around, and up his spine.

_How has he never done this before?_

He closes his eyes and tries not to choke on himself- it’s a little easier than taking Wade, he’s not as long and not nearly as thick. He can’t really move for himself- he can’t move his hips up and down like this, and he can’t pick his head up off the mattress. All he can do is try to wrap his lips tight and suck himself down.

He gets himself about two thirds of the way down before something else nudges up against his ass.

His ass, which is on full display to Wade.

Peter can’t quite see what Wade’s doing, but he can feel it. Wade tugs on the string of beads, popping the fifth one out. Peter makes a sound of discontent, looking indignantly up at Wade, but Wade doesn’t even look at him. Instead, he leans away, looking at something else.

His hand is still holding Peter’s hips down, so he can’t pull out of his own mouth and ask Wade what’s going on.

He settles himself by closing his eyes and experimenting with his tongue, tapping it against the head of his cock, swirling it a bit. He has to take a moment to swallow every few seconds, because of just how much precome he leaks out. It’s nicer tasting than Wade’s is, but he suspects that’s just because it’s his own. He almost forgets about whatever Wade’s doing as he slurps himself down.

And then something else starts to breach his hole.

It’s hard plastic. Not too thick, slick enough to slide in and nudge alongside the rest of the beads. Peter has a split second to think about the selection of vibrators Wade had showed him minutes ago before he hears a _click._

It springs to life, vibrating not only by itself, but causing the beads to rumble around as well.

Peter gives what he think might be a scream around his own cock as two of the balls hammer against his prostate relentlessly, sending another gush of precome into his own mouth. He swallows again and again, trying to get it all down, but he can feel a little bit leaking from the right edge of his lips.

“Take it,” he hears Wade breathe. “Baby boy, look at me.”

Peter fights to crack his eyes open as Wade starts to shove the vibrator in him again and again, with quick little thrusts that are too shallow to make the beads stop buzzing. With one hand on the vibrator, the hand on Peter’s back begins to press harder.

Peter feels it, feels his cock slipping back until it touches the back of his throat. He can feel as precome leaks straight down his throat, bypassing his tongue completely.

 _Please,_ he thinks desperately. Wade seems to hear him, because he presses his hand down on Peter’s back harder and harder, until Peter’s nose brushes up against the little flock of hair at the base of his cock. Again, he’s not as long as Wade, so he doesn’t choke on himself. But it’s still a tight fit, and he knows the head of his cock is lodged thoroughly somewhere in his throat. He tries to move his tongue and shudders at the sensation.

Wade pushes the vibrator harder and harder against his hole, until-

He feels his rim snap shut, swallowing the vibrator whole.

Every nerve in his body comes alive. Every single bead is vibrating, shoving up against his walls as Wade reaches down to knead his stomach again. His cock dribbles down his throat, giving little thrusts as Wade pushes again and again on his back, making him fuck his own throat.

“That’s it,” Wade growls, splaying his fingers over Peter’s stomach and rolling his fingers in patterns against the skin. “That’s it, baby boy, that’s it- come on, come for Daddy. Daddy wants to see you-”

He shouts around his own cock as he comes, finally, shooting down his own throat.

It’s too much- half of it slides down his throat but the other half comes back up, filling his mouth around his cock and leaking out the edges. He coughs, sending more vibrations down his sensitive cock, and the hand on his back comes off. His legs lift back up and he pulls out of his own mouth, gasping for breath.

Wade’s hand closes around his cock and pumps hard as the vibrator rumbles away inside him. Peter can’t even take a second to doubt that another orgasm is coming before it does. He squeezes his eyes shut just in time as he comes again, splattering come over his own face.

He keeps his mouth open half to catch the come, and half because he doesn’t have the energy left to close it.

Wade takes his hand off, wipes it on Peter’s stomach, and pulls him down so he’s lying flat on the bed again.

For a few moments, neither of them speak. Peter rolls his tongue over his lips, catching as much stray come as he can and licking it down. Wade just watches him, with something that isn’t quite affection in his eyes. If Peter tries hard enough, he can almost imagine it is.

After a couple minutes, Peter speaks.

“You know,” he rasps, throat feeling ragged, “there’s something I don’t understand.”

“Mmm?” Wade says, brushing come-stained hair out of Peter’s eyes.

“Who,” Peter says, “eats dinner at three in the afternoon?”

Wade snorts. “People who don’t care about continuity,” he says.

Peter sighs. He hadn’t expected a straight answer, anyway. “You’re so weird.”

Wade kisses his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidenote dont ever put an entire vibe up ur bum bc then [this](http://www.dailydot.com/unclick/vibrating-butt-dildo-doctor-livetweet/) might happen to u  
> also i think we're only gonna have another couple chapters of Kink before the plot comes around to throw it all out the window- so if u got kink requests make sure to send em


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: this chap gets pretty into the dubious part of dubious consent  
> if thats even possible- i mean this entire fic is the embodiment of unhealthy consent BUT ANYWAY:  
> peter's physically capable (with his super strength etc) of getting himself out of his situation but it's pretttty clear he's not comfortable. so if iffy consent (i.e. pretty much no consent) upsets you, hit ctrl+f when you reach the spideypool part and look for "they finish nearly" to skip over to the next scene

Bucky slams a map down on the table.

Steve jolts in his chair, pasta flying off his plate. “Jesus, Buck,” he groans, pressing a hand to his chest. “Don’t scare me like that.”

When no answering joke about his age comes, Steve frowns.

“Buck?” he says, looking from Bucky down to the map. “What’s this?”

Bucky unfolds the map and trails his finger along the red line that circles a loop around the borough. “This,” he says, “is how we’re going to find Peter.”

Steve looks down at the map curiously. “That looks like a trail,” he says.

“Found it in Pete’s room,” Bucky says, nodding. “Must be the route he takes when he goes out at night, because it doesn’t match up to the locations he gives us.”

“I told him to stick to daytime,” Steve starts, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Kid’s got nerve. And some kinda martyr complex, I don’t really get all of it. But that ain’t the point.”

“And the point is?” Steve prompts.

“If he went out at night and someone took him,” Bucky says, “that means it’ll have happened somewhere on this line.” He taps the map.

“On the path?” Steve asks, “or somewhere else?” He points to the various little spots on the map, all marked with bright red ‘X’s.

“Either,” Bucky says, shrugging. “I dunno what those mean- for all we know, they could just be his favorite places to eat. But it’s a lead- which is more than I can say for Stark.”

“Bucky,” Steve admonishes. “He’s trying.”

Bucky fixes him with a hard stare. “I don’t trust him,” he growls.

“Bucky,” Steve says darkly. “We’re on the same team, now, you know that. Tony is my friend, and-”

“I don’t mean ‘not trust’ like that,” Bucky says quickly, rolling his eyes. “I mean I don’t trust him to get the job done. You saw how he was about it, you heard him.”

Steve sighs. “It’s Tony, Buck. You know what he’s like.”

“Yeah, I do. Which is why we’re not gonna wait for him to get off his ass, we’re gonna find Peter ourselves.”

Steve hesitates.

“Steve,” Bucky says. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Steve says quickly. “No, that’s- this is a good plan.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, in a voice that makes Steve shrink back a little in his chair.

“Sorry,” Steve sighs. “I just can’t stop thinking.”

Bucky slides into the chair next to him, shoving the plate of eggs away from them and reaching for Steve’s hand. “Steve,” he says again. “You know it wasn’t your fault.”

“But,” Steve starts.

“No, shut up.” Bucky lets go of his hand. “I don’t care what happened to him, all right? Whether he left or someone took him or whatever the fuck- as long as we get him back. We can waste time worrying about whose fault it was after we make sure he’s not dead in a ditch somewhere, yeah? That’s the important part. We find him, we bring him back.”

“But,” Steve says slowly. “What if he doesn’t want to come back?”

“Well, we’re his parents.” Bucky folds his arms. “S’ our job to make him do stuff he doesn’t wanna do.”

* * *

Peter wakes to the sting of something hitting his cheek.

He yelps, screwing his eyes shut, and instinctively tucks his face down onto his chest.

“Now, now,” Wade’s voice says, and he snaps completely awake. “None of that. Come back here, baby boy.”

Peter peeks up from his chest- and yelps again as Wade’s hand comes down on his cheek. Instinctively, he tries to bring his hands down in front of his face and curl up into a defensive ball.

But he can’t.

“What,” he says blankly as he tries to move his wrists again and fails for the second time. He blinks again, trying to see in the dim moonlight streaming through the blinds- and stiffens as he realizes he can’t see _anything._ “What-”

He hears it this time- the _swish_ of air as Wade reels his hand back. He has a second this time to prepare, and he clenches his jaw as Wade hits his face once again.

“That one was for talking,” Wade says. “The others were for sleeping.”

 _Sleeping?_ Peter thinks incredulously.

“Without my say-so,” Wade adds, after a moment of thought. “I can’t let you do everything you want, can I? I’d be spoiling you too much.”

_Baby boy, I’m going to spoil you rotten._

Peter’s mouth opens, but the sting on his cheek reminds him not to speak. He flushes red, eyes flickering left and right. Even if he can’t see, he knows he’s still in the bedroom, and obviously still on the bed. But his wrists feel slightly numb, and he can’t move to sit up. He clenches his hands into fists experimentally, and realizes with a funny jolt in his stomach that they’re tied up to the top of the headboard. He blinks in confusion, and his eyelashes brush against something- cloth. He tilts his head against the back of the bed and feels a tight knot press up against the nape of his neck.

He tries to move his fingers again, but all the blood’s drained out of them. They twitch feebly.

He points his face at Wade, waiting for him to say something. For a few torturous seconds, nothing happens. And then-

“Good boy,” Wade purrs, sliding a hand over Peter’s bare chest. “You’re learning quickly.”

Peter flushes warm at the praise. Okay, he thinks, he can do this. Following directions isn’t so bad- it’s better than school, at least. They’re easy commands and following them earns him a quick reward. He can see, now, why people do this regularly.

(Something inside him makes a low, guttural sound.)

He tilts his face towards the window, trying to discern what time it might be. The last thing he remembers is being twisted in half with more things stuck inside him that he’d ever thought possible, and then nothing. He gives his ass an experimental clench, but there’s nothing inside it save for the now familiar plug. He smiles tiredly, eyes sliding shut, head lolling onto his shoulder. Wade takes such good care of him.

“Ah, ah,” Wade coos. “Look at me, baby boy.”

Peter opens his eyes sleepily- ignoring the part of his brain that reminds him he doesn’t need to- and points his face towards Wade’s voice.

“There we go,” Wade murmurs, reaching down and tucking a lock of hair out of Peter’s eyes. “There we go. Good boy.”

Peter sighs, feeling content.                                              

“I almost didn’t want to wake you up, you looked so precious- especially all tied up like this,” Wade sing-songs, and taps what Peter hopes are soft bindings around his wrists. His hands and wrists are numb by now; he can’t feel for certain.

He also can’t feel the sun on his body, so it must either be night or early morning. Had he really slept that long? He doesn’t doubt it- it’s frankly exhausting, being here. It feels almost like the sun’s abandoned him too soon, like the day had slipped through his fingers before he’d had the chance to cherish it. But then, he supposes, time does seem to fly when he spends his days cooped up in a bed like this.

“But,” Wade says, and Peter sits up in rapt attention. “I wanted to try a little something with you before bed.”

Peter’s cheek twitches in painful memory of the first slap, and he wonders how close he’d actually come to a good night’s sleep.

Wade probably doesn’t need to sleep, he realizes. That must be why Peter’s been sleeping in random little bursts all around the days.

His left arm twitches, hung up like meat to dry against the headboard.

“I want to see you squirm,” Wade breathes.

Something runs down Peter’s arm. It takes Peter a moment to realize what it is- after getting used to the smooth leather of Wade’s gloves, the rough scratch of his skin is foreign. And sure enough, the touch is strange enough to make him jolt against the bed, trying to sit up, curl himself into a ball.

His hips shifting on the mattress bring his attention to the fact that something is definitely still inside him.

A breath shoots down his throat and then back up it again before he can register it, and something in his chest makes him shudder every other second. A moment later and he realizes it’s his heartbeat.

When he calms himself down, he can feel the little string rubbing impatiently at his rim, and he knows it’s the beads. He can’t look to check how many are in, but he’s fairly confident that Wade had at least taken out the vibrator from last night. He chances another little bump of his hips, but his prostate remains high and dry. Only a couple beads, then.

“Down,” Wade’s voice says, and he lets himself slide down as far as he can onto the mattress. His wrists tug against their bindings, keeping his arms above his head as he settles it down on the pillows.

 “Good,” Wade says. “How does it feel, baby boy?”

Peter opens his mouth.

How it feels, he thinks to himself, is… well. Well, it’s new. Of course it’s intimidating now. He’s never been tied up like this before- at least, certainly not in this context. It’s just like the chastity device had been. Of course it is- and just like the chastity device, all he needs to do is get used to it. Of course it’s natural to feel nervous, or scared. Or terrified.

“Good,” he says.

“That’s right,” Wade breathes- _right into his ear-_ and Peter knows with a funny jolt that his question had only had one correct answer.

“How many,” he starts to ask, before he remembers.

Wade’s hand comes down so hard on his face that the top of his skull _thunks_ back against the headboard. The _smack_ reverberates around the room, louder with every echo.

“Come on, baby boy,” Wade hums. “Can you really not do better than that?”

Some juvenile part of Peter rises to this. He knows this trick, he’s heard it a hundred times before. Mr. Stark uses it when he wants to push Peter- _no, you can’t take level eight, trust me-_ so that if Peter fails, he’ll be proven right, and if Peter succeeds, he’ll get what he wants anyway. But the latter always seems like the lesser of two evils. Because even if he’s playing into someone’s hands, at least he’s proving them wrong as he does it.

So he clamps his lips together and holds his breath.

“There we go.”

Somehow, those three words seem to unpick a knot in Peter’s chest, sending a trickle of calm tingling through him. He lets out his breath, mouth still closed, and ignores the way his cheek stings at the brush of air against it.

“This,” Wade says, “is for you, baby boy. All for you. I just want you to lie back and relax. You got that?”

Peter nods as best he can.

“Good,” Wade says.

And Peter feels the push of something against his rim.

It’s not organic, he can tell that much. It must be one of the beads. The third one, maybe? Or even the fourth? He’s gotten so used to accommodating things up his ass that he wouldn’t be surprised if three beads had felt like nothing.

It slips in without much protest. He sighs softly when it’s in, glad for the small moment of relief. He has no doubt that Wade’s old rules about the beads are very much still in place- and he knows that the sooner he comes, the sooner he’ll be able to see and move for himself.

Not that he wants this to be over, of course.

He’s spared the effort of opening that particular can of worms when the next bead starts to breach him. He concentrates instead on relaxing enough to let it slide in among the others, and he can feel the soft raps and knocks as it bumps up against the other ones. There must be four inside now, he thinks. Five had always been a stretch, there’s no way he’d taken five this easily.

And, sure enough, a moment later he feels the slick press of the biggest bead. Praying to whatever deities that might be listening, Peter tries again to focus every bit of his energy into relaxing, just letting the bead pass through.

It slides in without another moment of hesitation, and he lets out a long, low breath. The hard part is over, he can’t even run the risk of pushing one out and having to start the whole thing over again.

“You’re getting better at that.”

Peter grins at the praise, wiggling his hips and feeling wonderfully full. The calloused hand touches his skin once again, pressing down on his stomach, trying to antagonize the beads. And antagonize them he does- Peter feels the first itches of hardness as Wade’s hand moves expertly against his skin. The other hand is nowhere to be seen- or in this case, felt.

Not until a moment later, that is, when it wraps around Peter’s cock.

It’s slick with what must be lube, which is nice, but it’s _cold._ Peter yelps as Wade’s fingers close around him, and instantly locks his jaw, prepared for the slap.

Nothing happens.

He hears Wade give a soft little laugh as he works his hand up and down, stroking Peter to full hardness and warming up the lube. Puzzled by the apparent lack of punishment, Peter shuffles on the bed, trying to get comfortable.

He’ll just have to be more careful next time.

It’s surreal, not being able to see. Every touch is a surprise- whether it’s where it is, how hard it is, or _what_ it is. Somewhere along the way, something touches Peter’s leg while both of Wade’s hands are occupied. He feels the spot where it had touched cool in the stagnant air of the room, clearly having left a wet spot.

 _“Whoop_ see,” Wade sings as Peter’s thigh jerks, and lets go of Peter’s cock. “I’m saving that for later.”

Later.

Christ, _how much_ later? Does Wade intend to spend the whole night like this? Peter thinks his hands might just fall off if they lose blood for that long. Maybe Wade knows that- maybe Wade’s forgotten that Peter can’t just regrow limbs at will.

Maybe, a small part of him voices, it’s not just Peter that Wade’s forgotten about. Maybe it’s everyone. Maybe he doesn’t always mean-

“You’re distracted,” Wade’s voice says, terrifyingly close to his ear. Peter jerks instinctively away from it, tongue clamped between his teeth. “Mind on me, baby boy.”

Peter swallows down the scrabbling thoughts trying to burst from him. When he lets out a breath, it only shakes once.

“Better,” Wade says, “better. I think I know what you need.”

He wraps his hand around Peter’s cock again and strokes him hard, the other hand sliding down Peter’s chest until it nudges along his rim.

 _“Hah-”_ Peter pants, and again there is no repercussion for speaking. “Hah- fuck-”

_Smack._

“I’m not sure you understand,” Wade’s voice says coldly. “You don’t-”

_Smack._

“Talk.”

_Smack._

“Unless.”

_Smack._

“I tell you to.”

Peter smashes his nose into his shoulder, eyes shut tight. His eyelashes rub against the edge of the blindfold, against something damp. This time the breath he sucks in is broken into several wet pieces, each tumbling down his throat, one after the other.

“Tell me,” Wade says quietly. “Do you understand?”

Peter jerks his head in what he hopes is a nod.

Pain explodes on his left cheek, the one left exposed. His mouth falls open of its own accord, letting a short little grunt out. He winces, readying himself-

But again, nothing else comes.

“I asked you a question, baby boy,” Wade says. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” Peter says blindly. “Yes, I- I understand.”

“Good.”

The bed tilts, and Peter feels the press of something warm and soft on his forehead. Wade pulls off with a smack of his lips and a hum, brushing Peter’s hair to the side.

“But don’t hold back, baby boy. I love those little sounds you make.” He kisses Peter’s forehead again. “But no words.”

 _Oh,_ Peter thinks. Oh, that makes sense.

Of course it does.

He nods again, leaning up against Wade’s lips.

“Legs up,” Wade says. Peter scoots his feet back so his knees pop up, legs bent. He hears Wade give a soft laugh. “Legs _up,”_ Wade says. Peter tenses his muscles and lifts his legs until his ankles brush his wrists.

He hears the rustle of fabric from somewhere off the bed as the bed tips away, and then it comes back. He feels Wade’s body heat radiate onto him as Wade reaches over to his ankles, slips something around them- he almost sags in relief as he realizes that yes, it _is_ soft- and ties them to his wrists.

“Perfect,” he hears Wade say.

Peter doesn’t have a second of warning before Wade tugs at the string of beads, nudging them against the other side of his hole. He grunts again, all the blood rushing to his head. He’s used to being upside down- what with his line of work- but not usually for quite this long.

As strange as this new position is, Peter can’t deny the constant nudges against his prostate as Wade fiddles with the beads. He still can’t see anything, but he’s pretty certain that at this angle, his cock is tantalizingly close to his own mouth again. Flushing red- he must look a bit like an idiot, like this- he probes his tongue out into the air, searching.

On his third try, he finds it.

His tongue swipes over the slick head of his own cock- but can’t reach much further than that. Still, it’s better than nothing. And it’s enough to push him just over the edge.

Before he knows it, he’s coming all over himself- it splatters down onto his face, most of it landing around his lips rather than on his tongue, like he’d been hoping.

“There you go,” Wade coos. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Peter sighs. “Better.”

“Good,” Wade says, and claps his hands over the bottom of Peter’s thighs. He spreads them apart slowly, teasingly. “Daddy’s going to have some fun.”

Peter keeps his eyes closed. All he has to do now is wait. He’s already come once, after all. He might have another round in him, but he’s just so goddamn exhausted from being woken up this early. Even the stinging pain on his face is ebbing now, to a dull throb. He might not have the healing factor that Wade does, but he still patches himself up a bit quicker than most people.

The beads slide out easily, with barely a tug, and Wade pushes in without further ado. Peter hears the beads clatter to the floor and lazily hopes that they’ll be washed before Wade uses them again.

The first thrust is easy, the second one easier, and he barely notices the third. Wade’s not fucking him particularly hard this time, and Peter finds himself drifting, his post-orgasmic brain going offline. His head droops to one shoulder, his toes uncurl, his hands go limp. And then-

And then something closes over his throat.

Instantly, every bit of him is online, alert, and trembling.

He stiffens, clenching- and Wade gives a satisfied moan.

“That’s it,” he sighs, rubbing his thumb under Peter’s chin. “That’s it, look at me.”

Peter would think to himself that it’s a ridiculous request, given the blindfold over his eyes, but he’s too distracted by the fact that his throat is half closed. He tries to suck in breath feebly, wrists tugging against their restraints in a pitiful attempt to claw Wade off of him.

“Yesss,” Wade hisses. “Yes, come on, take it-”

The fingers press harder against his throat, nearly cracking his bones. Wade’s thumbs dig in right above his larynx, and then-

He can’t breathe.

He can’t _breathe._

His ankles and wrists thrash against their bindings- he jerks his head to the left and right, shaking all over, he can’t breathe, fuck, he can’t- he can’t- he hears Wade shout, feels Wade’s fingernails digging so hard into Peter’s neck that blood starts to trickle down his skin, opens his mouth as the thumbs press against his windpipe, harder and harder and _harder-_

* * *

They finish nearly the entire outside route without incident.

It mainly circles around the borough, sticking to the outside streets. Occasionally it’ll dip into the center of the borough on a main road, but it’ll duck back out again before getting too immersed in the city. It takes them nearly the whole day to finish the loop, checking sidestreets and alleys, and by the time they’re almost done, the sky is dim with twilight.

It’s not until they’ve almost circled back to Astoria again that something interesting actually happens.

Bucky spots them before Steve does.

He nudges Steve in the side to tear his eyes off the rooftops and points down the alleyway behind IL Bambino. One hand slides reflexively down his pocket, gripping the handle of a switchblade.

“Easy,” Steve murmurs.

Three men are crouched in the alleyway, muttering darkly to themselves. All of them are wearing thick black balaclavas, and one of them is fiddling with what’s unmistakably a gun. They don’t even notice as Steve and Bucky walk closer and closer, not until Steve clears his throat pointedly.

Instantly, the one with the gun holds it up. The minute he sees the shield in Steve’s hands, it trembles and he raises his hands in the air. Taking the cue, the other two do the same. They’re all wearing cheap black gloves.

“Evening,” Steve says tersely.

“Uh,” says the man with the gun.

“We were just wondering,” Bucky says, leaning on Steve as if they’re socializing in the middle of a meet-and-greet party, “if any of you happen to know where Spiderman is.”

This is clearly not the question the men were expecting. They don’t speak for a few tense seconds, and the man with the gun looks as if he’s half considering using it anyway.

“About shoulder height to this guy,” Bucky adds, nodding at Steve. “Dresses in red and blue. Big eyes. Web stuff. You know.”

“Yeah,” says the man with the gun. “I know.”

“You know where he is?” Steve clarifies.

“Well- no,” says the man with the gun, taking a step back. “Listen, um. Are you gonna…?”

“That depends,” Bucky says, taking the switchblade out of his pocket. Steve refrains from rolling his eyes as Bucky starts twirling it between his fingers. “What can you tell us?”

“Well, I mean- I know _about_ him,” says the man with the gun. “And about the whole. Spider thing.” He shrugs, and his thumb slides off the trigger of his gun.

Bucky gives the switchblade a particularly fast flick around his thumb. “Buddy,” he says, “I’m gonna need a lot better than that.”

The man with the gun looks over his shoulder at the other two masked men, clearly trying to find some support.

“You know,” he tells them, gesturing vaguely towards Steve and Bucky _. “You_ know- come on, tell ‘em. You know about him, yeah?”

“Sure,” says the man to his left, shrugging.

The man to his right is silent.

“Come on, Michael,” the man with the gun growls.

The man apparently named Michael swallows thickly. “I already told you what happened, I don’t- I don’t want to say it again.”

“Well,” says the man with the mask, “that’s just too bad. Unless you want to spend the next ten years of your life learning how to hold onto a bar of soap, you’d better start talking.” He holds the gun up and points it at Michael.

Steve stiffens, shield ready- but Bucky is faster.

Steve blinks, and Bucky’s already stepped forward and knocked the gun out of the man’s hands. He catches it before it lands on the ground, flicks the end, and unloads the clip. Wrinkling his nose at the sight of it, he hands the empty gun back to the man, who takes it with barely trembling hands.

“You look like you need something to hold onto,” Bucky grunts, and twirls his switchblade again.

“Michael,” Steve says, in an almost honey-sweet voice. It’s the voice he uses at charity functions when he brings up the subject of children’s hospitals. Bucky’s pretty sure they’ve rivaled the Gates Foundation in Sad Children’s Hospital Donations by this point. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Michael looks down at his shoes. Even through the mask, his face is clearly twisted with worry. “I,” he says. “It was a little while ago, but. Me an’ Jerry were doing a job, and. And.”

“Skip to the part with Spiderman,” Bucky growls.

“He shot Jerry,” Michael blurts out, rubbing his eyes. “He just- he didn’t even look at ‘im, he just… shot him.”

Bucky stops twirling the knife.

 _“What.”_ Steve’s grip on the shield is so tight now that the whole thing is shaking.

“Listen,” says the man with the gun. “Jerry’s an idiot, all right? It’s his own fault he’s stuck in a hospital now with a fucked up foot.”

“It _wasn’t,”_ Michael hisses. “He’s braver than you are, at least.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “Sorry, go back. Spiderman _shot_ someone?”

“No,” Michael says, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. “No, it- fuck, it happened so fast.”

“It’s not like he’s _dead,”_ says the man with the gun. “He’s fine.”

“He is not fine,” Michael snaps. “Come on, I’ll shoot your foot too- see how ‘fine’ you are.”

“You couldn’t shoot me if I gave you a gun and held my arms out,” sneers the man with the gun.

“If Spiderman didn’t shoot you,” Bucky cuts in, and both of them fall silent, “then who did?”

Michael looks uneasy. “The… other one,” he says, shifting his feet.

Bucky frowns. “The what?”

“The other one,” Michael repeats. “There were two of them.”

“What, two Spidermans?”

“No.” Michael shakes his head again. “There was another… guy. There.” He sighs. “Jerry and I were gonna do this job. Simple stuff, regular hold-up. No one was even gonna get hurt. So we go in and hold the place up, you know.” he shrugs. “Only there was this guy there, at the counter.”

“Working?” Steve clarifies.

“No. Ordering.” Michael folds his arms around his middle, as if the memory is somehow painful to endure. “Anyway, we… we started holding it up, and he just…” He shudders. “He just pulls out a gun for each of us and holds ‘em out, calm as anything. Never seen anyone like that.”

“Jesus, Michael,” mutters the man with the gun.

“Anyway,” Michael says, either ignoring the man or not having heard him. “I was so sure that was it. And then- and then he just comes through the door, like he’s done it a hundred times.”

“The gun man?” Steve asks.

“No,” Michael says. “No, _Spiderman.”_

Steve clenches the shield. “Then what?”

“Then- then Jerry-” Michael bites his lip. “Jerry shot him.”

Steve takes a step forward, but Bucky holds him back by the arm.

“Where,” Steve growls. _“Where is Jerry?”_

Michael stumbles back a few feet, hitting the alley wall with a _thump._ “Woah,” he says, holding his hands up. “Woah, no, I- I mean- I mean he shot the other-”

“Steve,” Bucky says quietly.

Steve inhales. Holds it.

“Jerry,” Michael says quickly. “Jerry shot the man with the gun. Straight in the chest.”

Steve exhales.

“I thought you said no one was supposed to get hurt,” Bucky says, with a little hint of amusement. He gives Steve’s arm a squeeze and lets go.

“No one was!” Michael protests. “But- he was holding the gun, and the other guy looked ready to shoot- and he wasn’t a civilian, he was one of your lot- dressed up all crazy,” he adds, at Steve and Bucky’s inquiring looks. “But it didn’t matter. He didn’t even flinch.”

“Healing factor,” Bucky mutters. Steve nods tersely.

“Anyway, then… then they started talking, and Jerry got angry.”

“Idiot,” grunts the man with the gun, now leaning on one leg and watching Michael speak. “He never knows when to quit.”

Michael sighs. “No, he doesn’t,” he agrees. Through the mask, Bucky can just make out a fond little smile on his face. “So he started taunting him, tellin’ em to both get lost, and-”

The smile vanishes instantly as Michael breaks off, looking pained.

“It was just his foot,” says the man with the gun, rolling his eyes. “Not like he lost anything important.”

“I’ll shoot _your_ foot-” Michael growls.

“Enough,” Steve says sharply. “Michael,” he barks. “What happened then?”

“He was gonna kill me,” Michael says, shuddering. “He said something about my brain, fuck, I don’t remember- he was gonna kill me, I swear.”

“And then?” Bucky prompts impatiently.

“And then he didn’t,” Michael finishes. “He didn’t. Spiderman stood up and told him not to, so he didn’t.”

Steve swells a little with pride.

“So,” Bucky says slowly. “So then…?”

“They left!” Michael says, shrugging. “Just. Just chatted each other up and then left, like they were old pals. Didn’t even look back at Jerry and me.” He sighs. “I had to drag him all the way back to base, through the side streets and everything so people wouldn’t get up on our asses and call the cops. Thank Jesus the bullet wound didn’t get infected, or anything- they dug it out about half an hour later and stitched it up, but I don’t think he’ll be able to-”

“Who was he?” Steve asks curtly, shield lax at his side.

Michael shakes his head again. “I don’t know,” he says. “And I don’t want to- I never want to see him again.” He shudders.

“Pussy,” grunts the man with the gun.

Bucky’s arm is on Steve’s shoulder before Steve can start to move towards him. Bucky shakes his head minutely, and Steve lets out a breath.

“Let’s go with the easy question,” Bucky says, thumb rubbing over Steve’s shoulder. “Where was this?”

“Mamma Lee’s,” Michael says immediately. “Just to the West of the community college.”

Bucky nods. “And when was it?”

Michael shrugs. “Couple months ago, maybe longer.”

Steve sags.

“It’s a start,” Bucky murmurs.

“Well,” says the man with the gun, looking between Steve and Bucky. “If we’re done here- I’d hate to intrude on your time, gentlemen. We should be going.” Michael and the other masked man both nod, closing ranks until the three of them are in a tight triangle.

“Oh,” Bucky says, “no.”

The three men stare at him.

"No," Bucky snorts, "we’re taking all of you in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sprays wade with water* bad wade, bad wade, go to the corner  
> (also michael totally has a crush on jerry guys idk if you caught that but its 10000% canon)  
> thanks to [Juliibee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/juliibee/pseuds/juliibee) for suggesting breathplay (and lmao im sorry this was definitely not what you had in mind)  
> (pls note I did not label this chapter as smut for a reason)  
> starbucks girl next chapter i swear to god  
> also i have a spiderman/deadpool 008 comic that i don't need so i might do some kind of giveaway for that if anyone is interested - ill keep you posted in the next chapter


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chap has some pretty heavy dubcon so if that aint your thing watch out (tho I feel like most of u know what ur getting into if ur reading this fic in the first place lmao)

The most surprising thing Peter realizes when he wakes up isn’t that he’s no longer tied to the headboard by his wrists and ankles. Nor is it the fact that he’s alone. Nor even is it the fact that there doesn’t appear to be anything left stuck inside him.

It’s the fact that he’s wearing clothes.

It takes him a few seconds to feel it properly, the light brush of cloth over his skin. He sits up clumsily, tugging at the bottom edge of the thing. It’s soft and warm, and when he bends down to sniff it, the scent of laundry detergent fills his nose.

Morning sunlight drifting through the windows lights up the front, and he recognizes the shirt as his own.

He kicks the blankets off and sees his own jeans neatly buttoned around his waist. He tugs the waistband up and gives a huff of surprise as his own boxers stare back up at him.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he gives a little wince. His ass still isn’t used to being, well, _used._ But now he can say it’s not the first time his ass has hurt like this. That thought alone is enough to push him out of bed and onto his feet.

Getting his bearings, he stretches his arms over his head and yawns, then bends backwards. His spine cracks with a satisfying _pop,_ and he gives a groan.

“Baby boy?”

The sound makes him freeze. It’s not coming from anywhere immediately in the room, but that does nothing to stop the stuttered little palpitations under his ribcage.

“You awake?”

It’s Wade.

Of course it’s Wade, he thinks. Who else would it _be?_ And who else calls him that?

He forces himself to relax, yawning again in the early light of the morning. The room is delightfully stuffy and warm, windows closed and letting in sunlight. For a moment, the bed tempts him with its fluffy blankets and squishy looking pillows.

He grabs his left wrist and rubs it. And then, before he can stop himself, he reaches up and trails his fingers along his neck.

He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting. His skin is smooth as anything, warm from the bed. With his own spider-enhanced healing factor, the little cuts must have scabbed over and healed entirely overnight.

Or maybe, he tries to tell himself, maybe they hadn’t been there at all. Maybe he’d imagined that part.

His hands fall back into his lap.

“Yeah,” he calls. “I’m awake.”

“Oooh!”

The door flings itself open and Wade bounces in, full in costume. Peter gives a smile. He almost opens his mouth, but words don’t come. Something blocks them before they can reach even his throat.

(The curled, wounded remains hiding in the back of Peter’s mind flicker.)

“Well?” Wade says, holding his arms out expectantly. “Morning, baby boy.”

“Morning,” Peter says.

“Sweet dreams?” Wade asks, ignoring Peter’s lack of movement and striding over to hug him anyway. It turns into a half hug, but Wade doesn’t mind. He slings his arm around Peter’s waist and leads him to the bedroom door.

Peter closes his eyes and imagines the world going black around the edges. Imagines his wrists and ankles burning, pulling fruitlessly against restraints. Imagines his eyes rolling into the back of his head, imagines his brain pounding so hard he thinks it might burst out of his skull, imagines one last frantic thought before the white spots and the black around his vision blend together and he knows no more.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Good.” Wade pecks his cheek, then pushes him out the door. “I’ve got plans for today.”

Peter wonders, now. Wonders how those words would once have set fire to his insides and sent his heart careening fast enough to break through his ribcage and out of his chest.

And now, they make his heart stop completely.

When Peter says nothing, Wade gives an impatient sound and squeezes him around the middle.

“What’s gotten into you?” he mutters fondly.

“Nothing,” Peter says carefully.

“Well, I should hope so.” Wade sniffs off-handedly.

Peter nods minutely, but doesn’t give words.

Wade sighs- a loud sigh that catches in his throat and pushes Peter’s heart back against his ribcage, thudding wildly.

“So,” Peter says.

Wade stands up a little straighter.

“So,” Peter repeats. “You said you had, er- plans?”

“Oh, yes,” Wade says happily.

Peter understands now. It’s the silence he has to avoid this time.

“What are we doing?” he asks, leaning into the one-armed hug and walking with Wade through the kitchen. To his surprise, Wade walks him right past the table and chairs, past the sink, and heads for the door.

“You need some fresh air, so! We’re going out,” he says brightly, and reaches for what Peter recognizes as his own jacket, hanging by the door. Peter shrugs it on. “Incognito, of course,” he adds, handing Peter the same baseball cap and pair of sunglasses. “As much as I love seeing those baby blues, we can’t have anyone seeing you, can we?”

And he laughs.

It’s not really a malicious laugh, but it sends the smallest ripple of worry down Peter’s spine. He remembers Wade saying something, the last time they’d been out.

Before he can put his finger on just what it is, Wade shoves the door open and they head outside.

* * *

There was once a time when Bucky Barnes would have given anything to wake up to a quiet house.

There were _three_ times when Bucky Barnes would have given anything to wake up to a quiet house.

The first he can remember is from when the trigger words had still been there, buried deep. And when he’d woken every night to the gasp of his own breath and his hands scrambling for a handle under his pillow.

The second time, it hadn’t been his own nightmares that woke him. For nearly a year, Steve’s dreams had been plagued with images, terrifying him- terrifying _Bucky,_ who’d always woken first and shook him awake. But the second time had been better, because they’d always fallen back asleep, tangled together in a mess of limbs and blankets and tears. Some nights Bucky would lull him to sleep with songs he’d only half remembered, melodies that formed little patchwork tunes, not quite one song but not quite another. Sometimes Steve would slip back to sleep in his arms, breathing in time to the music. And sometimes not.

The third had been his favorite.

Gone now were the mornings of shrieks and yelps, of _thuds_ and _thumps_ that punched Bucky out of unconsciousness to meet his giggling son.

(More than a few times, they’d conspired on how best to wake Steve- who slept like a brick.)

Now, he thinks.

Now, he’d give anything to be ripped from sleep by his son.

“I know you’re awake.”

Fingers brush his chest.

“I know,” he says.

Beside him, Steve sits up, hand retracting back to his own lap. “Come on,” he says. “We should get going. They open in an hour.”

Bucky nods wordlessly and rolls to his other side.

“I mean it,” Steve says. “Don’t let me catch you sleeping when I get outta the shower, you hear?”

But the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and his words fall just short of teasing.

Bucky swings his legs over the side of the bed. “All right,” he says. “All right.”

He can feel Steve’s eyes on him.

“I’m gonna make breakfast,” he says, getting to his feet. “You want anything?”

Steve shakes his head.

“Toast it is,” Bucky says, shouldering past him. “Don’t use all the hot water. I’ve gotta run the dishes through.”

Steve nods.

His shower takes all of five minutes, but Bucky’s already finished with his breakfast when Steve ambles out of the bedroom, clothes sticking to his body. Steve rubs a towel through his hair as he makes a beeline for the cupboard.

Bucky rubs his eyes as Steve pulls out two energy bars and unwraps them in quick succession. By the time Bucky pulls the heels of his palms away from his face, Steve’s finished them both.

“Let’s go,” Steve says.

“All right, all right,” Bucky says. “Keep your pants on. They’re not gonna close down before we get there.”

“Still,” Steve says, folding his arms. “Best to be early.”

Bucky snorts. “You sound a lot like a morning person for someone who regularly sleeps in until noon.”

“Come on,” Steve says, pushing past him.

“Steve,” Bucky says, and stands. He grabs Steve’s arm gently.

“Not now,” Steve says. _“No,”_ he says as Bucky opens his mouth. “No, Buck. I know, all right? I know. But not now.” He shakes his head. “Wait until we find him.”

Bucky sighs.

“Please,” Steve says.

Bucky lets go.

“Yeah,” he says. “All right.”

* * *

“Where are we going?” Peter asks, as they walk down the sidewalk.

“You know,” Wade says, “I could really go for some coffee. You didn’t let me get much sleep last night, baby boy.” He winks.

Peter flushes. After all, it’s still a compliment. He screws his eyes shut as he gives a tremendous yawn. “Yeah,” he says. “Um. Coffee- coffee sounds good.”

He’s running on nothing but backup energy and sugar- coffee will get him through the day. (Coffee will keep him conscious so he won’t wake to the feel of Wade’s palm against his cheek.) Coffee is a _wonderful_ idea.

The nearest Starbucks is only a few blocks away, and Wade passes the time by babbling madly about this or that.

Peter spends the whole ten minutes thinking- not even conclusively. Something reminds him of how it had used to be, back when he’d been friends with Wade. When they’d talked like this, when they’d sat in front of an ice cream parlor and made stupid jokes about this or that.

But it’s not like it feels domestic again, that’s not what reminds him of before. No, it feels like there’s a piece missing that he just can’t find.

Something, he knows, is wrong. He’s not an idiot. He _knows_ that. Something had been wrong from the very start of this thing- had he just not realized it?

Everything had been fine- of course it had. Wade had been gentle with him, Wade had worshiped every inch of him. Wade had turned him inside out and praised him up to heaven.

_You know what you want._

Wade had made him feel things he’d never thought he could feel- Wade had pushed him to his limits, knowing Peter could rise to the challenge. Wade had been proud of him.

_But you don’t know what you’re asking for, right now._

What had he been asking for?

* * *

Mama Lee’s is nestled between Anthony’s Inn of Beauty hair salon and a Taiwanese-American church building. The orange awning pops out against the dull blue sky, and they push through the door without a moment of hesitation.

The cashier looks up as they enter, opening her mouth to give her usual customer-greeting, and stops short as she sees them.

Bucky’s not surprised. It’s always like this when they go out, but at least sometimes the civilian clothes make people pass over them. But dressed like this, in full uniform, he doubts they’re going to get a word out of her without pushing first. And, sure enough-

“Hi, ma’am,” Steve says kindly, striding up to the desk. The girl at the counter doesn’t appear to breathe. “We were wondering if we could talk to a few members of your staff. You see, I’m with SHIELD.”

The girl nods. “I know,” she says.

Steve gives a little laugh. “I guess that much is obvious,” he says, looking over his shoulder at the shield slung on his back.

“Yeah,” says the girl, and gives a laugh that sounds as if it’s being strained through a fine cheesecloth. “Um- okay- who did you want to talk to?”

“Well, we’re not sure.” Steve gives an apologetic smile. “There was an incident in here not too long ago, and we just want to get some information, see.”

“Oh!” The girl brightens. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“You were there?” Bucky says sharply.

The girl jumps, clearly having forgotten Bucky. She pales under his glare, and looks as though she’s delivering herself to her grave by saying it.

“No.” She looks down at the countertop. “But I heard about it- I mean, everyone did. I do know who was there, though.”

“Do you think we could speak with them?” Steve asks.

“Sure, just- hold on, let me see if they’re gonna be here today,” the girl stammers. She bends down and rummages under the table for a moment before pulling out a sheet of paper in a plastic sleeve. She squints down at it, reading the lines.

“Yeah,” she says, after about a minute. “Zoe was there that day- she’s in the back, I think she just took the trash out, I can get her.” She blinks up at Steve and Bucky. “Did you, uh. Want to wait? Or?”

“Yes, please,” Steve says, relief obvious in his voice. “If you don’t mind us taking one of your tables, that is.”

“Oh, no, go ahead,” says the girl. “That’s- fine, that’s. Fine. Yeah.”

“Thank you,” Steve says earnestly.

They sit by the window.

“You do realize she wants to bang you,” Bucky mutters a moment later, when the girl disappears into the backroom.

 _“Bucky,”_ Steve hisses.

“T’ be fair, most people do,” Bucky adds with a shrug. “I mean. I can’t blame ‘em.”

* * *

Peter doesn’t realize they’re in Starbucks until the barista greets him with her Starbucks Voice (which Peter has learned to both respect and fear in equal measure.)

“Hi,” says the girl behind the counter.

Peter blinks sleepily at her. “Hi,” he says, giving a polite smile. He looks down at her nametag, which is half covered in stickers. “Sophia,” he finishes.

“Oh, please,” says the girl, flushing pink. “You can call me Sophie.”

“Right,” Peter says, rubbing his eyes. He looks up at the board. “Er- could I have an iced caramel macchiato? For Peter?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Sophie says. “Anything else?”

“Um,” Peter says. “No, that’s it.”

“You sure?” Sophie ducks her head, as if trying to keep her next words from reaching anyone else’s ears. “You look like you could use a lil’ sugar kick. I’ll throw in a cookie on the house if you want.” She winks.

Something clamps down around Peter’s arm so tightly that he thinks a blood vessel might have just popped. He blinks and looks up to see Wade standing considerably closer to him, now, gripping his arm so tightly that his gloves are strained around his knuckles.

“I’m… good,” Peter says slowly, and Sophie gives a disappointed little sigh.

“Well, all right,” she says. “Iced caramel macchiato. That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Peter says, nodding. “How much?”

Sophie blinks, and then hurries to the computer. “Right,” she says, looking distracted. “Four eighty-three, please.”

Peter nods and hands over his debit card, but Wade swipes it out of his fingers, handing Sophie his own.

“Wha-” Peter starts, but Wade shakes his head.

It’s the most unnerving five minutes of Peter’s life, standing next to this silent, stiff Wade. His fingers are still clenched around Peter’s arm, unmoving. Every time Peter makes to take a step away, they tighten to a nearly painful level and he stops.

Finally, _finally,_ Sophie calls out his name and slides a drink over to the counter. And this time when he tries to walk toward it, Wade’s fingers loosen enough to let him pass. But as soon as he’s got his hand around the cup, Wade’s arm slides tightly around his waist and he’s being walked out of the coffee shop without another word.

Maybe in another lifetime, maybe if he’d known Wade for longer, he would have snapped something now, demanded an explanation. But here and now, he bites his lip and lets Wade walk him out the door, left, across the sidewalk, and back into an alleyway.

* * *

“Zoe, right?”

The girl nods, terrified. Her mascara quivers.

“Don’t be nervous,” Steve says calmly. “You’re not in trouble. I just want to ask you about what happened.”

“The Spiderman thing?” Zoe asks.

“The Spiderman thing,” Steve confirms, nodding.

“Well,” Zoe says slowly. “I was the backup cashier, so I was out up front. And I see this guy in the line, all weird and dressed up in costume. And at first, I’m like, who is this guy? Because, I mean, _I’ve_ never seen him before. Should I go ask him? But then I figure, like, hey. It’s none of my business, right? So I should just let him order and everything and come through, whatever. No big deal.”

Bucky’s hand closes around the switchblade, tightens, and then unclenches.

“And then these guys come in, all in black with the masks and stuff,” she says. “They had guns and everything, oh my god, I was crying.”

“We’ve heard,” Bucky grunts. “Steve, get her to the point.”

“Zoe,” Steve says calmly. “We just need to know who he was.”

“What, the guy in the mask?”

“No.” Steve sighs. “No, the other man in costume. Did you recognize him?”

“Well, no,” Zoe says, shaking her head. “Like I said, I’d never seen him before. Had a cool costume, though. Really nice mask, and everything.”

Bucky’s jaw locks into place.

“Just tell us everything you can about him,” Steve says. “It’s very important we know.”

“Why?” Zoe’s eyes widen. “Wait, was he, like- oh my god, was he a villain? _Did we have a villain in here?”_

“Yes,” Steve says.

“We don’t know,” Bucky says. “We think it might have been-”

“Oh my _god,”_ Zoe breathes. “Oh my god, he could have killed us. I should have known- geez, with the swords and the scary name and everything-”

“The what?” Bucky snaps.

“Swords,” Zoe repeats, lighting up. “Two of ‘em, these great big swords on his back. It was crazy, he didn’t even use ‘em!”

“The _name,”_ Bucky growls.

“Oh, yeah.” Zoe rolls her eyes. “I don’t believe it for a sec.”

“Could you,” Bucky says slowly, fighting the urge to pull his switchblade out. _“Please.”_ His fingers tighten. “Tell us. What it was.”

Zoe shrugs, nodding.

“Deadpool.”

The door slams shut before Zoe realizes they’re gone.

* * *

Wade pries the drink out of Peter’s hands and- as Peter stares disbelievingly- sets it carefully on the dirty alley ground.

“What-” he begins, but doesn’t know where to finish. That’s not the right question. He tries again. “Why,” he says this time. “Why did you pay?”

Wade’s eyebrows knit together- again, behind his mask, what the hell? “They could trace your card in a second,” he says impatiently. “What was that?”

“What?” Peter stares helplessly up at Wade.

Wade, who’s now practically pinning him up against the wall. And then it isn’t _practically_ anymore, it’s actually- his hands find Peter’s wrists and press them back behind his head, his eyes are narrowed and dull- not that sparkling, crinkling white that Peter’s used to now, but the blank, barely-there white that almost hides under the black outline of his mask.

And then he stomps, hard, on the drink.

The plastic cup cracks down the middle and collapses, coffee spilling everywhere. It sloshes over Wade’s boots and trickles down the alley, down into the drain pipe.

Part of Peter wants to shout _what the hell_ and scramble to his feet, but the part of him that’s still got logic stays rooted to the spot. Because he’s seen this face before, he knows these eyes. He remembers seeing them narrowed at two ski-mask clad goons in a Chinese restaurant, what feels like years ago. These are the eyes he’d hoped he’d never see again.

“What,” Wade repeats, very quietly- but somehow blocking out all other sounds as he speaks- “was that?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” Peter says helplessly, screwing his eyes shut and trying not to shake too much. “I don’t know- Wade, I don’t-”

And then he remembers. His eyes snap open and he sucks in a breath.

“S-Sophie?”

Wade’s hands tighten around his wrists.

 _“Sophie,”_ Wade hisses. Peter shudders.

“She was just- being nice,” he tries.

But he knows, somehow, that logic isn’t going to play into this argument. He can argue his case as best he can and lose, or…

“You smiled at her,” Wade says softly.

Peter closes his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I did.”

And Wade’s mouth closes over his throat and sucks, hard. Teeth snag into his skin, tearing, tugging, and he only barely stops himself from yelping into the night air. Wade’s knee shoves between his legs, pressing him harder still against the side of the alleyway. The brick is still warm from the sun.

Wade pulls off, looking down at the already purpling mark on Peter’s neck. It’s obvious, and so high up that Peter won’t be able to cover it with a scarf even if he tries.

For one sweet second, Peter thinks he’s gotten through the worst of it.

And then Wade leans down again, an inch from the last mark, and starts making another one.

It _hurts._ Wade’s teeth are sharp and practiced, and his tongue offers only a little relief as he sucks hard enough to pop the blood vessels under Peter’s skin.

Wade makes four more marks on Peter’s neck before apparently deciding that’s enough and pulling off, breathing hard. And it’s not until he pulls off that Peter realizes he’s not standing on the ground anymore. Wade’s leg is still shoved between his own, and somewhere along the way Wade’s hands had slid down to his hips, where they grab him now, holding him up.

And it’s a good thing they are, because Peter’s knees are shaking harder than they had when he’d fallen off his bike for the first time and broken his wrist.

“You’re a whore,” he hears someone say, very close to his right ear. “An attention whore. Aren’t you?”

And what is he supposed to say to that?

He nods, eyes still closed.

“You like it,” he hears Wade whisper, “when pretty girls look at you like you’re a pretty little boy. You like it when pretty girls smile at you and _write their numbers down on your coffee cup.”_

He hears the _crunch_ of plastic again.

The sound is sharp, loud, and out of place in the otherwise quiet night alley. The sounds of the street are muffled slightly by the walls, by the dumpster almost blocking the view of the main street. Peter jerks at the sound of it, rubs up against Wade’s knee- and realizes that he is impossibly, _achingly_ hard. He can’t help it, he can’t help that his heart still rejoices every time it remembers this, remembers that Wade _wants him._

“Wade,” he breathes, eyes opening and searching through the dim light until they find the sky. There are no stars to guide him, there are only rooftops and clouds.

* * *

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Steve-”

“I’m going to _kill him.”_

“Steve, no, you can’t.”

“Try to stop me, Buck. I swear to god, _try.”_

“That’s not what I mean, Steve- you know he’s got a healing factor.”

“Then I’ll kill him as many times as it takes for the message to get through.”

_“Stevie.”_

This time it’s Steve who takes Bucky’s arm, yanking him to the middle of the sidewalk as they walk. They’re back over on Bell Street, heading back north towards home.

“Don’t,” Steve starts, but Bucky runs him over.

“Listen to me,” Bucky growls. “Just because he was there doesn’t mean he’s taken Peter, all right?”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Steve snaps. “It’s him. You know it’s him.”

“No, I don’t,” Bucky says, shaking his head. They turn right at Northern Belvedere and keep going. It’s not a beautiful neighborhood, Bucky thinks as he takes a glance around. He yanks his eyes away from the alleyway as he catches a glimpse of two people behind a dumpster, moving very suspiciously. And rhythmically.  Gritting his teeth, he looks back at Steve, pulling them to a stop.

“Listen to me,” he says in a low voice. “All we know is that Peter and Deadpool were both there that day- and that was, what, a month ago? More?”

“He was asking about him,” Steve points out. “You remember that? He was all curious, talking about some made up school assignment, just trying to get information.”

“Well,” Bucky says slowly. “That’s true.”

“I know you like him,” Steve says, folding his arms. “I know that, Buck, I do. I know you get it.”

“I just think you’re jumping to conclusions,” Bucky says. “He’s not a bad guy, all right? He’s just not like you.”

“Like me?” Steve splutters. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s not all good inside like you are, he’s like the rest of us,” Bucky says firmly. “He’s a human being, Steve, he’s made mistakes. And he deserves the benefit of the doubt. _Besides,”_ he adds, running over Steve before he can speak, “why would he want to take Peter in the first place?”

“Lots of reasons,” Steve says immediately. “You know what he does for money- he might be waiting for us to put up a reward. Or he could be selling him to the highest bidder- Pete’s not as high level as we are, but I’m willing to bet he still has enemies.”

Bucky sighs. “That’s a fair point,” he says.

“So you admit it’s him-”

“It’s a possibility,” Bucky says firmly. “Look, Steve. Pete’s a kid,” he adds calmly. “I doubt Deadpool would willingly let him come to harm. That’s his rule.”

“I don’t’ care what his rules are,” Steve growls. “If he’s taken Peter-”

“We’re gonna find him, Stevie, I swear,” Bucky says, stopping Steve short. “We’re gonna get him back. But we need Stark’s help to do it. Okay?”

Steve hugs him.

“I miss him,” he says, voice muffled in Bucky’s jacket. “I can’t lose him, Buck, I can’t. I- I lost you once, and-”

“Stop that,” Bucky says softly, rubbing Steve’s back up and down. “Don’t talk like that, Stevie. S’ gonna be okay. I promise.”

After another few sniffles, Steve nods and stands back at attention. They walk on, hand in hand.

* * *

Peter can’t breathe.

His neck is mercifully untouched this time, but no air passes through.

_“Listen to me.”_

Oh god. Oh, _god._

“Oh, hello there,” Wade murmurs, tucking his nose down behind Peter’s neck to block it from view of the street. The dumpster’s doing a pretty good job of hiding them already, but Peter shudders in relief all the same.

Well, the shudder could be from relief or from the fact that Wade’s shoving him against the brick wall with every thrust. It’s a toss-up.

_“All we know is that Peter and Deadpool were both there that day- and that was, what, a month ago? More?”_

“Someone’s getting warmer,” Wade whispers, lips brushing Peter’s ear.

Peter knows there must be some sort of transition between the last set of words and the next, but he doesn’t hear what they are. In the next instant, Wade hoists Peter’s legs around his own waist, rendering him completely airborne. The coarse brick scratches down the back of Peter’s neck and he winces, trying to concentrate.

_“He’s not a bad guy, all right?”_

(A very small, very beaten part of Peter laughs.)

Again, he misses whatever it is his father says in retaliation as Wade shifts him up, grabbing his cock and stroking him quickly. He gasps, jolting an inch down the wall.

“Shhh,” Wade breathes. “We wouldn’t want your daddies to hear you, would we?”

Peter shakes his head.

“Good boy,” Wade murmurs. “Keep quiet, that’s it.”

 _“Pete’s a kid,”_ he hears, and something in his heart twists. He doesn’t want to hear about this- he doesn’t want to know just how little his parents think about him.

“Sounds like your daddies have it wrong,” Wade says, nipping at his earlobe. Peter bites down on his lip to stop the little yelp that threatens to escape, arms wrapping around Wade’s neck so that he can keep himself upright.

But as much as he tries to block it out- as much as he tries to concentrate on the barely-there slick sound of Wade pounding him against the wall, his ears can’t help but listen. And listen. And-

 _“I miss him,”_ Peter hears. _“I can’t lose him, Buck, I can’t. I- I lost you once, and-”_

He closes his eyes.

* * *

_“Tony!”_

“Jesus _Christ,_ stars and stripes, what-”

“Shut up and listen for one moment in your tiny, pathetic life.”

“Excuse me, I-”

“Sorry, did I say life?” Steve grabs the collar of Tony’s shirt and tugs him up so they’re nose to nose. “I meant dick.”

“Now that’s just hurtful.” Tony frowns. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to drop me back onto my own floor, I might- wait, did you just swear?”

“Tony,” Steve says.

“You _did!”_ Tony looks inexplicably happy for someone being held up off the ground by his own shirt. “You did- FRIDAY, please tell me I got that on video.”

 _“Yes, sir,”_ says FRIDAY. _“Audio and video security feeds are both functioning normally.”_

“Yessss,” Tony says.

“Enough,” Bucky says.

Steve lets go.

“We need you to find someone,” Bucky says, as Tony climbs back up to his feet.

“What, someone else?” Tony frowns. “Did you lose another son?”

Steve looks ready to murder someone. Bucky snorts. Steve glares.

“What?” Bucky shrugs. “S’ kinda funny.”

“All right, all right,” Tony says, holding up his hands before Steve can fly off the handle. “I’ll call my guy in. Who do you need found?”

Steve takes a breath. “Deadpool,” he says, in a voice so low and dangerous that for a moment, Tony’s not sure which of them spoke.

“Deadpool,” he repeats slowly.

“That’s the one,” Bucky says. “Red suit. Swords. Guns.”

“No, I know,” Tony says. “But you’re sure?”

“Very sure,” Steve says.

“Well,” Bucky says.

“See.” Tony claps his hands together. “See, that’s sort of. A problem.”

“What do you mean, a problem?” Steve narrows his eyes.

Tony opens his mouth.

* * *

Peter clamps his lips together, teeth grinding.

Wade slurps off his cock, tongue lingering over the head for a few moments. He pulls off, presses his lips to the tip for a quick kiss, then nuzzles his face down to the base. Peter hisses as the rough fabric of his mask rubs up against the side of his cock, which leaves a trail of spit in its wake.

He still doesn’t understand how Wade can be so mind-bendingly good at sucking cock. He’s tried it himself and he still can’t get past the basic head-bobbing- and even that is still challenging. But Wade does things with his tongue that make Peter’s toes curl, he can make his whole throat ripple around the sides of Peter’s cock like it’s just another muscle, like it isn’t even a challenge.

It probably isn’t.

Wade gives the tip of his cock one more kiss and looks up at him through his mask, one eye glinting with spit.

“Someone’s distracted,” he says.

Peter closes his eyes and lets his head drop back onto the pillows, breath shuddering out of his lungs.

“Still thinking about your daddies?” Wade snorts. When Peter doesn’t answer, Wade takes it as all the answer he needs.

“Well,” he says, “Don’t you worry about them. I told you before, baby boy.” He gives a laugh that Peter almost considers a giggle before crawling up the bed. His lips brush Peter’s ear, not for the first time. “I’m never letting them take you away.”

Peter nods blankly, eyes still closed.

“He was crying,” he says, unable to stop himself.

“Hm?” Wade nips at his earlobe. Peter shudders.

“My dad,” Peter says. “He was crying.”

“I _know,”_ Wade moans, licking a wet stripe along the side of Peter’s ear. Peter shudders. “He was so worried.”

“But-”

“You did that, baby boy,” Wade whispers. “I’m so proud.”

Peter’s heart turns over. Wade snorts, as if he knows precisely what Peter’s feeling.

“Oh, don’t feel _guilty_ about it,” he says, eyeroll evident through his voice. “I’m just saying- you did it.”

“I made my dad cry,” Peter echoes.

“You did,” Wade says, nodding. “All by yourself.”

It’s the last three words that send a sucker-punch to Peter’s stomach. He frowns to himself- it’s right there, he knows. The puzzle piece, it’s right there. He can’t reach it, he can’t see it, but he knows it is, he knows it’s just past his fingertips, waiting- waiting-

“Baby boy,” Wade says. “Look at me.”

Peter opens his eyes to the dim bedroom light.

* * *

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Tony shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Well,” Bucky says, shrugging. “This explains why he’s turned up nothing.”

Tony has the good grace to look slightly ashamed. “Right,” he says. “Yes.”

It’s the closest thing to an ‘I’m sorry’ they’re going to get.

“You’ve been hiding a convicted criminal- a threat to SHIELD,” Steve says slowly. “And you didn’t think it was relevant to tell us?”

“That’s kind of the point of hiding,” Tony points out. “So, you know. No one knows where you are.”

“He tried to kill Bucky and I,” Steve thunders.

“Bucky and me,” Bucky corrects.

“He did save you eventually,” Tony adds.

“Look, that don’t matter,” Bucky says sharply. “The point is you know where he is.”

Tony sighs. “That’s… actually. No. I don’t.”

Bucky and Steve stare.

“I gave him equipment,” Tony explains tiredly. “I don’t personally block his signals, he does that himself. And it’s my technology- which means it’s good. Too good. I couldn’t unblock it myself, even if I had my own equipment to work with. And he’s bound to have made tweaks to his own stuff by now.”

Bucky runs a hand down his face. “So you can’t find him.”

“Well,” Tony says.

Steve reaches for his collar again, but Bucky holds him back.

“He’s got a phone?” Tony says quickly, backing several steps away. “It’s just a cheap burner one,” he adds quickly. “I can’t trace it- he uses it for work, that’s all I know.”

Bucky, impossibly, cracks a grin.

“Then we’ll just have to send him a message.”

* * *

“You know how much I thought about this?” Wade hums, running his thumb over Peter’s shoulder. It’s rough skin this time, no gloves. “Having this little dreamboat in my arms?”

“No,” Peter says, breath huffing out of his lungs as his other shoulder bounces against the headboard. “Do tell.”

“Ever since,” Wade says, hitching Peter’s legs up further, “I saw that little bubblebutt of yours.” Peter hooks his ankles together to keep himself stable, trying not to bite his lip in fear that his teeth might just sink straight through the flesh.

It strikes him just how soft Wade’s lips are, at least in contrast to his hands. The rest of his skin, though scarred, isn’t rough. Only his fingers are calloused and worn, only his fingers tug against Peter’s skin whenever they slide across. But his lips, oh.

His lips are soft as fucking velvet.

They seal over the pulse point on Peter’s neck and his teeth nip and catch. He suckles, sucks over the marks he’s already made, until Peter’s neck starts to throb. He hasn’t had the chance to actually look at himself, actually see what a mess Wade’s made of him. And though part of him is dying to find a mirror somewhere, maybe pull out his phone and squint at the barely-there reflection-

Part of him is glad he can’t.

Wade pulls off with a _pop_ and taps what must be the line of bruises on his neck, because Peter’s skin throbs in the wake of his fingers.

“You’re so gorgeous, baby boy,” Wade hums. “I wish I could hang you up on my wall and look at you forever.”

Peter drags his bare toes over Wade’s back, which is also bare to the world, bare to him. He can’t help it, can’t help but feel _pretty_ whenever Wade says things like that. He’s past blushing now, though his face still feels hot whenever Wade showers him with compliments. The novelty hasn’t worn off, but the shock has.

“Talk to me,” Wade murmurs, holding Peter around his waist, so he’s trapped between the headboard and Wade’s chest. It’s like being swaddled. “Talk to me, baby boy. You like it when I call you gorgeous?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, nodding as best he can with so little room to move. “Yeah.”

“Makes you feel pretty,” Wade says.

Peter shivers. How does Wade do that? How does he know _exactly_ what Peter’s thinking?

“Yeah,” he says again. “I like it.”

“You like being my pretty little boy,” Wade hums. “You like it when Daddy tells you how much he likes you.”

“Love it,” Peter murmurs.

Tonight, Wade’s going slowly. It’s not the desperate thrusts that punch the air out of Peter’s lungs, but a slower, careful rhythm. It’s almost like an apology- maybe, Peter thinks, it’s Wade’s way of calming him down after nearly being caught in the alleyway. Maybe he knows how Peter’s gut twists every time he thinks of his fathers, and he’s trying to distract him.

Something nudges the back of his mind at that thought.

It’s overruled by the nearly painful nudge of the headboard against the base of his skull, and he forgets it before it can even form into a corporeal thought.

“Come on, baby boy,” Wade hums. “Talk to me.”

Peter opens his mouth. A small whimper trickles out of his throat. Wade laughs.

“Tongue tied?” he asks. Peter tries to nod again. “Well,” Wade says. “That’s okay, baby boy. You don’t have to talk. Daddy will do all the talking. Okay?”

Peter’s head clunks against the headboard as he nods, one last time.

“You’re even prettier than I ever thought you’d be,” Wade murmurs, holding Peter in his arms as he fucks into him, gently. “You and your baby blues.” He squeezes Peter tight, giving a few particularly slow, deep thrusts. Peter sighs against him, feeling warm and full and comfortable.

“Some people,” he hears himself say, “don’t think they’re blue.”

“Oh no?” Wade lets go and tilts his head back enough to look Peter in the eyes. His mask squints.

“Yeah,” Peter says, “they’re really- _oh-_ dark. So some people think they’re just brown.”

“They look pretty blue to me,” Wade says. And to Peter’s horror, he moves to pull out. Instinctively, Peter’s legs tense around Wade’s waist, trying to keep him where he is. Wade laughs. “Baby boy, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. I just want to lie you down.”

Reluctantly, Peter legs his legs go slack. Wade pulls out with a huff, taking hold of Peter’s ankles and gently dropping his legs down onto the mattress.

“Down,” he says, and Peter scoots himself off the headboard, until he’s lying down on his back. “Stay.”

Peter blinks.

“I’ll be right back,” Wade says. “Stay.”

Peter nods.

Wade slips off the bed and heads for his drawer. He tugs it open and rummages a hand inside, sending all of the toys clattering against each other. Peter feels a strange tug of disappointment pull in his gut. Something about the idea of bringing toys back into the mix seems a little impersonal- in the same way that holding Peter to his chest and whispering to him how beautiful he is seems very, _very_ personal.

“Here we go,” Wade crows, pulling out three sleek black cloths. Peter frowns at them and realizes that they’re strips of cloth rather than sheets. They shine in the evening light filtering through the blinds, glinting at Peter.

Peter sits up.

Wade frowns, looking away from the cloth and narrowing his eyes at Peter.

“Down, baby boy,” he says.

Unable to tear his eyes away from the blindfold and the silk ties in Wade’s hand, Peter doesn’t move.

“I said _down,”_ Wade says. Peter lies down.

Wade crawls back onto the bed and grabs Peter’s left wrist. He slides the silk tie around it and pulls it up to the left post on the headboard, fiddles with it for a second or two, and then lets go. Peter closes his eyes as he ties his right wrist up in the same fashion, heart thudding in his chest.

“And now,” Wade says, holding up the last strip of cloth. It’s thicker than the rest, tapered at the ends obviously meant for tying. “Head up, baby boy.”

Peter stays still.

“Head up,” Wade repeats, voice a little cooler. “Now.”

Peter swallows- feeling his throat pulse against every single bruise on his neck- and lifts his head. Wade reaches around and pulls the edges of the blindfold around his skull, tying them at the base of his neck.

He clamps his eyes shut. If he tries hard enough, he can imagine he’s the only one blocking his vision, he’s the one keeping the world dark, he’s the one doing this, deciding, this is his fault, this is his choice-

A hand presses against his chest.

He sucks in a breath, back arching up off the mattress.

“Sensitive,” he hears Wade murmur. “So pretty.”

“Wade,” he says, voice trembling. “Wade, I-”

“Shh.” Wade’s other hand joins his first, and his fingers roam up until two pairs of fingers close over Peter’s nipples, tugging. Peter yelps, jerking against his restraints.

“Wade,” he says again. “I don’t-”

“Hush,” Wade says, voice sharp. “Hush, baby boy. No talking.”

Something sinks low into Peter’s stomach.

“I don’t-” he stammers, feeling his heart thud faster and faster behind his ribcage. Wade’s fingers pinch again, and a breath shudders out past his lips. “Wade,” he says again.

“Hush, shh, shh,” Wade murmurs, and the hands slide higher, slide past his collarbone, until his fingers curl up, curl around-

He’s not aware of just how hard his wrists are trying to pull away from the headboard until his fingers start to tingle and he realizes his hands are completely numb. His feet pedal against the sheets desperately, kicking out onto thin air. His lips part just enough to bare his teeth- clenched shut- to the bedroom air, and his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth hard enough to ache, presses against the back of his teeth-

He almost doesn’t hear himself say it, the word almost doesn’t pass his lips. But over the sound of the sheets rustling and the blood pounding in his ears, he can just make it out.

_“No.”_

Wade’s fingers close around his throat.

“That’s it,” he moans, sliding in with a quick thrust. “That’s it, that’s it. Take it.”

The ‘N’ forms on the tip of Peter’s tongue, but it doesn’t get any further than that. As Wade pulls out and slams home, as he picks up a steady rhythm at last, his mouth falls open and slack.

Wade’s fingers slide up, above his trachea. They press and they _press,_ against the lines of bruises, against Peter’s skin, shoving the front of his throat against the back, closing off- closing-

“Baby boy- baby- _fuck-”_

Again, he feels the creep of static around the edges of his vision. Again, his head starts to swim. Again, Wade comes inside him with a deep groan as his fingers tighten impossibly further around his throat.

But this time he stays.

Wade doesn’t speak.

His fingers loosen ever so slightly, letting the smallest little slipstream of air pass through. Peter sucks it down, feeling his head start to pound.

Wade pulls out.

His fingers unclench and release. He reaches up to the headboard and unties Peter’s wrists, one after the other. A shift over the sheets, and those fingers slide behind his head, fiddling with the silk tie. He doesn’t pull it off of Peter’s face, just lets it rest there. Like it belongs over his eyes.

Peter thinks he hears a yawn, and then another little groan.

And then the bed dips beside him. A faint _click_ sounds and the light creeping around the edges of the blindfold vanishes.

A minute passes.

Wade sleeps.

Peter stays.

When Wade's breathing evens out, Peter chances moving his arms. Still lying on his back, he rubs the marks on his neck, the marks he knows are still there. Even though the skin feels smooth under his fingertips, it still burns when he strokes over the places where Wade’s nails had dug into the flesh. He rolls his tongue in his mouth, thinking. The word had come, hadn't it? Or had he imagined it? Had he just not said it loud enough for Wade to hear?

The tiny part of his brain laughs at that, a bitter laugh that does little to soothe his churning stomach.

He shivers and turns. The blindfold slides off his face and he looks at Wade. The dim light from the streetlamps outside filters through the blinds and lands on his mask. It’s more comforting this way- somehow the idea of turning his back to Wade makes him uneasy.

Why, he wonders. It’s not that he feels particularly enraptured by the sight- he’s more than used to Wade’s mask, Wade’s body. Why, then, does the thought of turning away make his stomach twist in worry?

He sits up suddenly, then freezes and stares at Wade. Several seconds pass before Wade snuffles, rolling onto his side and sleeping on. Peter lets out a breath as Wade relaxes, danger passed.

But then, he thinks. But.

Since when had there ever been a danger?

 _Since when,_ says a voice in the back of his head as it stands up, as it cracks its wrists and clenches its fists,  _had there ever not?_

Peter realizes with a jolt that he is powerless now, in a way he’s never been before.

He doesn’t eat unless Wade offers- unless Wade buys. He doesn’t come until Wade says so. He can’t sleep unless Wade allows it. He can’t _speak_ unless Wade wants him to. It’s not even submissiveness, it’s something more, it’s like- it’s like he’s like a scared little dog, afraid of angering his master-

Wade had wanted sounds, but not words, Wade had wanted- Wade wants-

_You need some fresh air. Let’s get you fed._

_Come here._

_Up. Sit._

 

_Stay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thisss chapterrr haaaates meeee T.T god it was fighting me tooth and nail the entire time  
> thanks to [Lookitsteatime]() for suggesting jealousy and naming our poor barista Sophie (and lmao sorry it took this long to get her in)  
> also i lost like 4 bookmarks for the last chapter ;A; gosh i wonder whyyyyy  
> u are all filthy sinners i love you so much <3 <3 <3  
>  **also HEY I have a Spiderman/Deadpool 008 comic up for grabs!! If you leave a comment and also mention that you want the comic, you'll be in for the giveaway. I'll number you off and use a number generator to pick the winner.** rules: uhhh only enter once (though you can comment as much as you like lmao), and it ends whenever I post the next chapter (sooooo anywhere from tomorrow until like a month from now amirite). you'll have to be comfortable giving me contact info, etc etc. go wild


	12. (SMUT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the shower scene happened bc i was like DAMNNIT why didnt i put shower porn in here now its too late  
> and then i was like wait no i can just write it)  
> (i hope u sinbins enjoy)

_8:35 AM_

Wade Wilson grabs the bar of soap congealing in the shower dish and rubs it under his armpits, thinking.

How, he wonders. How is it that his tiny little spider can make him so damned _happy?_

It’s a strange happiness, too. It’s not like the happiness Vanessa had given him, because that happiness had always been laced with a little sliver of worry. A worry that some sunny day she would wake up, look at him, and decide there was someone else out there she liked instead. She’d never looked at him in total admiration, never worshiped him. They’d been equals to the end.

He’d always liked that.

But Peter, oh. Peter is different. Where Vanessa had been quick witted, Peter is awkward. Where Vanessa had punched back ten times harder, Peter evades. And where Vanessa would look him across, in the eyes-

Peter looks up.

It’s not _good,_ he knows. It’s not good that Peter looks up and he looks down. But, inexplicably, Peter likes it. And some calloused part of Wade likes it too, and the rest of him has just been shrugging along so far, letting that part wave its flag.

But it doesn’t matter that it’s not good, that it’s wrong. It doesn’t matter, because Peter wants him.

Some part of him knows that Peter’s a kid, but much more of him doesn’t care. And much, _much_ more of him knows and loves, because Peter is _good._

He’s the one good thing- the one pure little good thing Wade has had, after so many years of Bad Things.

He’s just. He’s so small, and so perfect. He’s naïve, and that’s what makes him who he is. He’s innocent, sure, but in ways that Wade can never be again. He’s new to death, he’s new to pain. He’s a stranger to betrayal- no one has ever, ever lied to him. At least, he thinks bitterly, not in the ways they’ve lied to Wade.

But Peter doesn’t know how it feels to be neglected, how it feels to live in a world where not a single person loves him.

He doesn’t know.

All he _does_ know is love and kindness, he knows support and love and caring and parents and love and hope and _love,_ and Wade-

Drops the soap.

He curses and crouches to pick it up.

Because the thing is.

The thing _is._

Wade is bad.

Wade _knows_ he’s bad. He knows there are so many things he’s done wrong- not just in his life, not just altogether. He knows it was wrong to take Peter like he did, he knows it was wrong to let him come, to keep him, to hide him.

But he wants. He wants _so much._

Wade has never been close to perfect; he knows he’s never been, and he knows he never will. But Peter.

Yeah. Peter will.

And he knows Peter is smart. Peter knows he’s no good, Peter had known that from the start- but he stays. And Wade might know that he’s fucked in the head, more than a little. He’s known that for years. But maybe, he thinks. Maybe Peter’s a little bit fucked, too.

He’d come to Wade in the first place, hadn’t he? That counts for something.

But he knows. He knows how fucked Wade’s head is and he stays. He _stays._

Does he forgive? Will he ever? Christ, Wade thinks, he has no idea.

But if Peter stays, then forgiveness can wait until the end of time.

* * *

_8:30 AM_

Peter wakes to the sound of sheets rustling and the low _pop_ of bone cracking into place. The bed dips beside him and he shifts under the blankets.

“Morning, baby boy.”

Peter closes his eyes at the sound of Wade’s voice- maybe if he stays still enough, Wade will believe he’s still asleep.

 _Maybe,_ says that part of his brain, _he doesn’t care whether you’re awake or not._

He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes.

“So cute,” he hears Wade coo, and a hand runs through his hair. It’s sickeningly sweet, he thinks bitterly. How on earth could this ever have convinced him that Wade had cared?

But Wade evidently believes he’s asleep, because Peter gets two more pets and then the hand leaves his hair.

“Later,” he hears Wade say quietly- probably to himself more than to Peter- “we’ll get you in the shower. Oh, yes.”

Peter thinks of all the ways Wade might string him up- by the wrists, maybe, or upside down by his ankles. He’ll let the spray hit Peter square in the face, keep him from talking, from breathing. Or maybe he’ll fill the tub with water and shove Peter down underneath, hold him by the back of his head.

Thankfully, he hears the door swing shut before he shivers at the thought.

He waits. And waits. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen.

The shower turns on with a _ka-clunk-clunk-fshhhhh,_ and Peter sits up at last.

He looks around the room frantically, as if he’ll find a way out of this mess through the door, or through the window. He hitches his legs up as if to move off the bed, then tucks them back under the blankets. Will Wade expect him to still be in bed when he gets out?

Can he move? Can he leave the room?

No, he thinks bitterly. No, he’s stuck here.

What the hell is he going to do? He flops back down onto the bed and stares at the ceiling. There are two long cracks running perpendicular to one another, meeting in an ‘X’ just to the left of the corner.

He can’t just go back home.

For one, Wade might find him and bring him back again- and he doesn’t want to think of what the punishment for that might be. But for another, if either of his parents find out that this is where he’s been, if they find out that he’d gone _here,_ they’d murder him themselves. And what kind of a cover story can Peter even give them?

Before he can even begin to think of what kind of a story his parents might buy, something buzzes.

It strikes Peter as odd that he first thinks of the bedside drawer, wondering if one of the toys inside has started up. But a moment later he thinks that no, that must not be it. The drawer isn’t rattling- and besides, no one’s touched them to turn them on in the first place.

But it is coming from the bedside table, so he turns himself over and squints, trying to see past the sleepiness still stuck in his eyes.

Sitting on Wade’s table is a small, pathetic looking flip phone. It’s glowing.

Peter looks at the doorway, listening to the sound of the spray. As long as he can hear the shower’s on, he’ll be safe. And he’ll have a little time after the water turns off to put the phone back down, if he needs to. It’s not like Wade’s going to come straight back here without at least toweling off, right?

He takes the phone.

When he flips it open, he can just make out a notification at the bottom of the screen telling him that there’s a new message in his inbox. He can’t help checking the doorway one more time, just to make sure- before opening it with trembling fingers.

_‘Wilson,_

_I know you have him. Give him back now and I’ll still keep SHIELD off your ass. Keep him, and I’ll make sure everyone who’s ever heard of the Avengers will be after you._

_I won’t bother pretending I actually know where you are, because we both know that’s not true. But I can promise you that if you don’t hand him over, I’ll be giving Fury all the info I have on you. And you know how much I hate talking to Fury, so that should mean something to you._

_And no, this isn’t a death threat. Obviously those don’t work on you._

_But do consider this a hundred thousand different types of torture threat._

_You have twenty four hours to deliver._

_TS_ ’

Peter stares at the initials at the bottom, then reads the message over three more times. It’s Mr. Stark, it has to be. But he’s never heard Mr. Stark angry before. And why in the world is he threatening Wade?

He reads the message again, trying to use a different voice in mind this time, and a line of goosebumps snakes down his arm. The phone slips between his fingers and lands on the blankets covering his lap. He stares at it.

They think Wade’s taken him.

Immediately, his brain tears in two.

 _No,_ says one part angrily as it stands up. No, he thinks, that’s not what happened. Wade hadn’t taken him at all, he’d come here. Wade hadn’t done anything. _Peter_ had. He’d made this happen.

Wade had _given him_ all of this- his house, his food, his body. He’d given that all to Peter, because Peter had come in the first place.

And just like he’d had the power to make it start-

He has the power to make it _stop._

And the other part of his brain stands to meet the first, nodding. He does, he thinks. He does. They already think Wade’s taken him.

All Peter has to do now is prove them right.

He picks up the phone.

* * *

Wade shakes the towel over his head, squints at himself in the cracked mirror for a moment, then grabs his mask. He looks down at it, stretches the fabric in his hands.

He’s being stupid, he knows. Peter’s seen every other bit of him.

He slips the thing down over his nose, rolls it to his neck, and checks the mirror again. Satisfied, he tucks the corner of the towel under the edge, keeping it secure around his waist. There’s no real point to doing so, but he likes the domesticity of it. He heads back into the bedroom, humming to himself.

The blankets on the bed are curled over in the exact shape of Peter, and he can’t help but smile under his mask.

“Hey,” he says quietly. It feels a little odd to use this kind of voice around Peter, but there’s a first time for everything. He walks towards the bed, slowly.

“I just want you to know,” Wade tells the blankets. “That. I’m sorry. And I don’t even know what for.” He laughs, shrugging. “But I know I’ve been _not_ sorry to a lot of people. And you’re…” He sighs. “Different.”

The blankets listen.

“I think,” he says to the air. “I think we might have something, here. I mean, I’ve been thinking- if you stay. I could teach you more.” He shrugs again. “Get you used to the rest of the world. I could help you. We could- we could go, together, go somewhere- you wouldn’t have to worry about going home- you wouldn’t have to _have_ a home to go to, you could have-”

His lips press together.

He takes a second to breathe.

“You could have me,” he says quietly.

The blankets, not surprisingly, don’t comment. He sticks a hurried laugh into the silence before it has the chance to grow.

“I know,” he says. “I _know._ It’s not the most well-thought-out plan, but I thought maybe you’d want-”

He sighs, shaking his head. “I thought maybe you’d want what I want. And I want…” He swallows. “I want to keep you.”

He laughs again, this time letting the sound linger until the silence swallows it. It stretches for perhaps three full seconds before he clears his throat to finish.

“Just,” he says. “Think about it, maybe.”

He sighs.

“Think about it.”

The blankets think. He watches them, tries to picture in his mind just how cute Peter looks right now, underneath him. How cute he looks whenever he sleeps. The way his mouth goes slack, the way his eyes stop tightening, his nose scrunches up. Filled with a sudden urge of affection, he rolls his shoulders and glances at the window. Yeah, he thinks, he’s got time.

“I’m gonna make breakfast,” he says briskly. “You want anything, baby boy?”

The blankets don’t answer. Wade frowns.

“Baby boy?”

* * *

He finds Peter in the kitchen, standing by the kitchen counter in nothing but sweats. He’s swaying his hips slowly to a melody that slides between keys as he hums it, taps the spatula against the edge of the frying pain in beat.

“Baby boy?” Wade says slowly, walking forward until his feet hit the woodgrain of the kitchen floor.

“Oh,” Peter says, turning around and beaming up at him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Wade says.

Peter grins sheepishly, looking back at the pan on the stove. “Sorry,” he says. “I was hungry.”

“I’ll let it slide this time,” Wade says with a wink. “But only if you give me half.”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on eating six eggs by myself.” Peter laughs.

“Good.” Wade glances at the pan, sizzling with eggs and butter. “Listen,” he says. “I’ve been thinking-”

“You want cheese?” Peter interrupts, reaching over for the bag of shredded cheese on the kitchen counter. “I like cheese.”

“Sure,” Wade says impatiently. “But let’s talk, baby boy.”

“Breakfast first,” Peter says. “Talking later.”

It’s such a command that Wade stops in his tracks, tongue working against the roof of his mouth as his brain runs in two different directions at once. Peter seems to be waiting for him to say something- and his shoulders tighten, he’s worried.

He’s probably wondering if Wade is going to force him or not. And for a moment or two, Wade’s tempted. But.

But he just looks so perfect, here. With his spatula and his morning-face and his eggs.

And Wade’s heart melts.

“All right,” he says. “Breakfast first.”

* * *

“Yes,” Bucky gasps, “Yes, _fuck-_ Steve-”

“I know,” Steve murmurs. “I know.”

“Fu- _huh,”_ Bucky pants. “Fuck- just- scoot down a little.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah- perfect. S’ perfect- _fuck.”_

Steve leans up and kisses his temple.

The door slams open.

“Rise and shine, Barnes and Noble, we have a new _oh god my eyes-”_

The door does not slam shut.

“Do you mind,” Bucky says, looking over from where he’s propped up by his arms over Steve, very clearly occupied.

Steve gives an almighty yelp and reaches desperately for the blankets, but they’re bunched at the bottom of the bed, completely out of reach.

Tony holds his hand over his face, looking rather like he’s trying to squeeze his entire face shut.

“Do you two always start the day like this?” he asks.

“Better than an alarm clock,” Bucky says, and picks up his rhythm again.

 _“Stop that,”_ Tony shouts, taking a step back and whacking into the lamp by the door. _“I can hear you!”_

“I know you can,” Bucky says, not slowing down in the slightest.

“Tony,” Steve grunts, voice catching a little as Bucky gives a particularly hard thrust and the word punches in half. “Did you- want- something?”

“How considerate of you to ask,” Tony grumbles, still hiding his eyes behind the palm of his left hand. His right hand, clenched at his side, is holding something. “As a matter of fact, something important-”

“What’s that?” Bucky asks, looking at it.

Tony takes the hand off his eyes to try to follow Bucky’s gaze, and immediately slaps it back on.

“I don’t know why I looked,” he moans to himself. “It wasn’t better the second time.”

“Your phone,” Bucky snaps. A bit of his irritation siphons into his thrusts, because Steve’s breaths start becoming more and more audible. The bed starts to rock, giving a soft _thunk_ against the drywall with every movement.

Looking slightly green now, Tony holds up the phone, displaying a text message.

“Shit,” Bucky says, not stopping for a moment. “Give that here.”

“Oh, ew, no,” Tony moans.

“Tony,” Steve gasps, toes curling. “Please.”

“Ew,” Tony says, taking two steps forward and holding the phone out as far as he can reach. “Ewww.” Bucky doesn’t take it, and he shuffles forward another inch. _“Ewwwwww.”_

Bucky snatches it out of his hand. Tony scrambles back and collides with the lamp once again, this time sending it crashing to the floor.

“Is anything on fire?” he shouts. “I’m not opening my eyes for anything that’s not on fire.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “It caught the carpet.”

Tony peels his hand off and looks first at the completely fire-free carpet and the perfectly intact lightbulb, and then up at Steve and Bucky again. Bucky smirks and holds up the middle finger of his free hand.

Tony gives a long, pained whine and slides both of his hands over his face.

“Steve, I think he’s crying,” Bucky says.

“I am not crying,” Tony says.

“Just read it,” Steve starts to say, but Bucky freezes before he can finish. Steve, pinned down by Bucky’s entire weight and wholly unable to move himself, frowns. “Buck?”

Bucky pulls out.

“Oh, god, I _heard that,”_ Tony moans.

“Get up,” Bucky snaps at Steve, not looking back as he hurries to the dresser drawers and starts pulling out clothes. Understanding what Tony’s text must have meant, Steve nods and sits up.

“Showers,” Tony says, frantically trying to step away from where he can hear Bucky moving around. The back of his foot catches the fallen lamp and he stumbles. “Hygiene _. Please.”_

“No time,” Bucky growls, throwing a shirt and jeans at Steve.

“No,” Tony moans. “I have to smell you like that the entire time-”

“Who said you were coming?”

Even though his face is covered by his hands, they can tell he rolls his eyes magnificently.

“Someone’s gotta blast him to pieces, right?”

Bucky shrugs. “Fair enough. Steve,” he says, and Steve looks up. Bucky tosses the phone at him and Steve catches it easily. He opens through the lock screen and scans the message.

_‘188 Underhill Ave._

_If you want him, come get him._

_xoxo Deadpool’_

His fist tightens so hard and so quickly that the phone snaps in two, landing in a pile of dust on the blankets.

* * *

He brings Peter back into the bathroom, because those tiles just don’t look right without that pink little body splayed over them.

He takes his sweet time rubbing the soap up and down Peter’s back, thumbing it down into the skin until it melts off with the spray. His hair straightens out as soon as it gets wet, falling past his eyes instead of flicking up in the familiar curl that Wade’s so used to, now.

The grease in Peter’s hair is incredible. Wade has to work the shampoo in and out three times before his fingers squeak when they tug at the sopping strands. It’s cheap shampoo- because he doesn’t actually _need_ shampoo, come to think of it.

He only buys the stuff because it’s easier to use and cheaper than bar soap. Obviously.

Shaking away the now familiar nag of continuity- incontinuity? Is incontinuity a word?- tickling behind his ear, he grabs the conditioner bottle and squeezes out a dollop into his palm.

And yeah, nope. There’s no excuse for the conditioner.

Fuck it, he thinks. Details are for losers.

He works the conditioner into Peter’s scalp, body thrumming every time his baby boy makes a little sound of gratitude.

He’s just so eager today, Wade thinks. Which is strange, because the last day or so had felt tense. But then again, he supposes, it’s probably natural. After all, his baby is so new to all of this, of course it’s going to feel intimidating. But Wade had known, has always known- the best way to get into new things is to dive in headfirst. And yes, he’d thought, it would be uncomfortable at first, but once he got Peter past that hump-

Ha, hump.

-everything would fall into place. And fall into place, Peter has.

Peter does this _thing_ with his spine that Wade’s pretty sure he himself can’t do, and- the little _slut-_ starts thrusting against the wall.

“Yeah,” Peter says, “but I’m your slut.”

Wade blinks. “Did I say that?”

Peter hums affirmatively, sticking that cute little butt out. Wade grabs either cheek- because seriously, how is he supposed to resist that- and seriously, _why would he-_ and thumbs between the cleft, rubbing shampoo suds in.

“Don’t worry,” Peter says. “I like it.”

“Oh yeah?” Wade runs his tongue over his lips, though he know his baby boy can’t see him do it. “You like being Daddy’s little slut?”

“God yes,” Petey Pie says, trying to rock his little ass back even more. Wade thinks if he tries any harder, his spine might just crack in half.

“You like it when I call you that?” Wade groans, pressing his right thumb against Peter’s rim and watching it twitch and clench shut on instinct. He’ll have to fix that. He makes a wager with himself- by the end of the month, he’ll have that little hole trained to open up at his touch. “When Daddy calls you what you are?”

“Yes,” Peter breathes, pushing back on Wade’s thumb. Wade taps his hole and takes his hand back, tutting.

“Impatient,” he hums. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

He’s baiting. He waits, waits for Peter to see it, to jump-

“Please?”

Feeling something warm him up from head to toe, Wade slides his thumb down the cleft of Peter’s ass, tucks it just past that tight little ring of muscle, and gives it a good wiggle. Peter gasps and shudders- probably more for show, because he’s taken much, much more than the tip of Wade’s thumb before, but hell if Wade cares.

The spray hits Wade’s back as he works his right thumb lazily into Peter’s hole, letting his left hand slip around to Peter’s chest, stroking lazily. His fingers tease Peter’s left nipple, making his baby boy gasp and shudder against the back wall.

The windowsill to their right starts shining morning light into the shower, illuminating the soap bottles and giving the whole bathroom a sort of glow.

It’s why he’s always liked this bathroom. Not only because of the window in the shower, but because of the shag carpet on the floor, the perfectly sized tub, the mirror stretching from the countertop to the ceiling, and the sink that seems big enough to wash a cat in.

Not that he has any experience washing cats.

Peter fits in perfectly with the décor. His flushed pink skin matches the maroon paint covering the bathroom walls, and the white patterned shower curtain only makes him shine that much brighter. Steam billows off his skin, just visible by the morning light.

The tub is just wide enough for Wade to straddle him, so that’s precisely what he does. And what, he wonders, will happen if he doesn’t give his baby boy the normal stretch? It can’t be that disastrous- because again, he’s taken much much more than just Wade’s cock before.

In the spirit of experimentation, he slips his thumb back out and spreads Peter’s cheeks wide, watching water slide down Peter’s back, down his cleft, over his hole.

Peter slides down an inch, feet skidding on the slick tub. The hand on Peter’s chest abandons its fun at Peter’s nipple and holds him instead, steadying him. Wade’s other hand slides down to his own cock, lining it up. He gives a little press, making sure Peter knows what he’s about to do.

“Come on,” Peter whispers, shaking that little ass again. Wade almost slips inside by accident as he does. “Stop teasing me.”

The mask around Wade’s face- which is soaked through, thank god he has spares- stretches over his mouth as a grin spreads across his face.

“Oh ho ho,” he says, and pulls away. Peter gives a great whine, trying to press his cute little bubblebutt back up against Wade’s cock, tries to fuck himself, god, he’s so desperate for it, so gorgeous.

“I am not desperate,” Peter pouts, and huh, he must have said that bit aloud, too.

“Mm, you know you are,” Wade coos, taking one cheek in each hand and squeezing them. Peter’s mouth opens but no words come out. Wade gives his cheeks another couple of squeezes before smacking them both. The sound reverberates in the acoustics of the bathroom, making it seem nearly twice as loud.

“Daddy,” Peter moans, pressing his chest against the wall and sticking his ass out even more.

“Listen to you,” Wade gushes. “Listen, you’re begging for it. You’re just begging for Daddy to give you what you want.”

“Need it,” Peter whines. “Daddy, please.”

God, he’s so perfect.

“Not yet,” Wade says, grinning. This is the best part, after all. It’s no fun if it’s just grab-and-go, he has to build it up a little. Until he’s _really_ begging. “Before Daddy takes care of you, you have to take care of Daddy.”

Peter looks over his shoulder, wet hair falling between his baby-blue eyes. Well, they’re not really baby-blue, they’re so dark, but it’s fun to say the words ‘baby-blue’.

“How?” he asks, and Wade smiles.

“Turn around,” Wade says, taking his hands reluctantly off of Peter’s cute little cheeks. Peter turns, and the spray falls between them. “Knees,” Wade says, and Peter sinks down. He looks up at Wade through his pretty little eyelashes, hands already on Wade’s thighs, edging them apart. He bites his lip, glancing down from Wade’s face to his cock, which is at full attention, inches away from his gorgeous little cocksucker lips.

“Daddy?” he says, and even through the steam of the shower, Wade can feel Peter’s breath over his cock. He bites his lip under the mask.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Can you-” Peter breaks off, cheeks flushing pink. Wade sighs fondly, bringing a hand down to his baby boy’s hair, still wet.

“What is it, sweets?” He waits a beat, but Peter doesn’t give an answer. He tries again. “What do you want Daddy to do?”

That does it.

Peter tears his eyes off of Wade’s cock, seemingly with a great effort, and looks back up at Wade. His lower lip sticks out just the slightest bit- the _tease-_ before he opens his mouth to speak.

“I want you to fuck my face,” he says, in that honey-sweet voice.

“Oh, baby boy,” Wade breathes. “Of course. Of _course.”_

“Wanna,” Peter says, hands sliding up. “Wanna taste it. When you.” He blushes so red that he can’t even finish that little sentence.

“Yesssss,” Wade hisses.

“I-I _want it_.” And the little stutter is so perfect, so beautiful, so pure-

“Open,” Wade says, and Peter’s lips part in a perfect ‘O’. They’re pink and shiny in the wet of the shower, so soft and gorgeous. Wade sets both his hands in Peter’s hair and brings him down, down, until his cock just brushes Peter’s bottom lip.

Slowly, so slowly, he drags it back and forth, until Peter’s lips are dripping not with water, but with slick precome.

Seemingly unable to take it, Peter _whines_ again and the sound sends a shiver down Wade’s spine.

“Patience,” he coos, and Peter pouts again. “Daddy can’t spoil you every single time, can he?”

“But you said,” Peter whimpers. “You said yes.”

Wade sighs fondly, running his fingers through the wet strands of hair. “Yes, I did,” he concedes. “All right, all right. Open, baby boy.”

Peter’s lips part again and he sticks out his tongue, the little slut.

It’s like a sigh of relief as Wade sets his cock down on that pretty pink tongue, rocks it back and forth a few times, just pushing it past his lips, letting it slide back out again. His mouth is wet and warm, warmer even than the misty air in the shower.

Peter can’t form words like this, but he makes another keening sound, looking up at Wade with pleading little eyes. And Wade can’t resist that, he just can’t.

“Hush, baby boy,” he sighs, and slowly starts feeding his cock into Peter’s mouth. Peter’s lips close around it immediately, suckling it down like he’s starving for his last meal. Slowly but surely, his lips draw in the entire length of it, and he gulps and moans around it like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.

“There you go,” he praises, as Peter bobs his head in shallow little movements, keeping Wade almost entirely sheathed in his throat. He barely gags now, which seems like a miracle, considering just how much of a gagging little slut he’d been at first. Even though that sight had been delicious… this is better.

 _“There_ you go,” he sighs. “That’s good. That’s _good._ Good boy.”

Just as Peter knows his tells, he knows Peter’s. The little boy flushes with the praise, tongue working faster and faster. He licks around the base, around the sides, because his tongue can’t reach the head when it’s so far down his throat. It’s a valiant effort- and even though Wade’s slept with much more skilled people, this somehow feels _so much better._

“You’re being so perfect,” he coos, as Peter swallows noisily around him. “You ready?”

Peter sinks down until his nose is buried in Wade’s stomach, and Wade takes that as a ‘yes’.

“Daddy’s going to fuck your face now,” he says calmly, and Peter shudders. “And then Daddy’s going to come down your throat. And you’re going to take it, all of it. Don’t lose a drop, baby boy. You understand?”

Peter gives a low hum of agreement.

“Good,” Wade says.

He tightens his hold in Peter’s hair and lifts him off, slowly. Spit trails from his lips as he sucks in a breath through his mouth, staring fixatedly at the flushed head of Wade’s cock, dribbling precome down into the tub.

“Open,” Wade says again, because Peter’s lips have closed- probably of their own accord. Peter obeys instantly- such a perfect, perfect boy- and Wade shoves his cock past them, driving it down his baby boy’s throat. He tugs Peter’s hair, forcing him down, and yanks him back off again. Peter gasps, tongue slipping out of his mouth as he sucks in breaths.

“Perfect,” Wade hums. “Perfect.”

It takes two more slow fucks into Peter’s throat before Wade loses patience. Grabbing Peter’s hair tighter than ever, he picks up a punishing pace, fucking his throat in earnest. Peter doesn’t fight it, just lets his whole neck and shoulder go limp, lets Wade force him down, up, off, and back down again.

It takes two more minutes before Wade finally comes, and Peter swallows down every single bit.

Wade doesn’t pull out after, though, he keeps pistoning in and out of Peter’s mouth until he can feel a second round coming. Carefully, he pulls Peter off until his lips are just wrapped around the head, just as he comes again. It lands on Peter’s tongue this time and the little boy splutters, choking and coughing as come splatters the walls of his mouth.

“Take it,” Wade says, because his baby boy had begged for it, after all. “Come on, you can take it. Drink it down.”

Obediently, Peter tries to swallow it down.

“Good,” Wade praises, pulling out. He’s already hard again- thank you, healing factor- but Peter looks just about ready to burst. And indeed, Wade sees on second glance, his hand is tucked behind him.

Well, then. If Peter wants to play like that. Peter can tease, but Wade can tease him to the point of begging.

 “You naughty little boy,” Wade tuts, and Peter rocks his hips, clearly scissoring himself open. “You dirty little slut, oh, baby _boy.”_

 “Up,” he commands, and Peter shakily gets to his feet. “Turn,” he says, and Peter turns back to the wall, pressing his chest against it again and sticking out that cute little ass. Three fingers already inside himself, he scissors them open, showing off his cute little hole all stretched wide and open. He takes the fingers out and instead spreads his cheeks expectantly.

Any second, now, he’ll pull out and tease Peter senseless until he’s begging Wade to fuck him. Any second, but. But.  He can’t deny himself just a taste.

He presses the drooling head of his cock up against that little pink hole, bumps it up against the rim. He’s not going to fuck Peter, not here. Not yet. He has to wait.

Peter wiggles those little hips and Wade’s cock nudges just past the ring of muscle, slipping inside.

This is it, he tells himself. This is his taste.

Peter sinks his little ass down, wiggling it the entire damn time. Wade can’t do anything, he’s absolutely helpless, as Peter slowly, slowly takes the rest of Wade’s cock, until his cute little butt is nuzzling up against Wade’s stomach.

 _“Yeah,”_ he breathes, and slides his hips from side to side, Wade still completely sheathed inside him. “S’ good.”

“You are so filthy,” Wade groans, grabbing those perky little hips. The instant he says the words, he knows they’re wrong. Peter’s not filthy, he doesn’t have a dirty bone in him. (Well, except Wade’s.)

But all bone jokes aside, Peter is the last thing from filthy- especially like this, dripping with shower water, a few soap suds still sticking stubbornly to his hair. He glows like this, steam rising off his shiny pink skin in clouds. He’s so beautiful, Wade thinks, so cute and perfect and pure.

“Pretty, pretty,” he hums, as Peter fucks himself on Wade’s cock, shoving his hips back again and again. “So pretty.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Peter looks over his shoulder, still wiggling his hips.

“Baby boy,” Wade murmurs. “I think you’re gorgeous. My gorgeous little boy.”

He smacks Peter’s right cheek, shooting a little gasp out of his baby boy’s throat. He won’t fuck his baby boy, no. If Peter wants to ride him like this, then of course he can. But that doesn’t mean Wade’s the one fucking him.

Well.

One or two thrusts can’t hurt.

The first two rolls of his hips are slow and steady, and Peter takes full advantage of it. He clenches that little ass of his, making that ride in and out impossibly tight- but still so slick.

One more, he tells himself. Just one more.

He pulls out until Peter’s tight little hole is clenched around the head of his cock, keeping it inside, and slams back in, shoving Peter forward against the shower wall. Peter gives a wanton moan, sliding his tongue around his lips as if he’s still trying to taste Wade on him. The little slut, he probably _is._

And of course he has to pull back out in order to leave, so he drags his cock back out, slow and slick, as Peter clenches as hard as he can, little legs quivering. He whimpers as the head of Wade’s cock nudges the other side of his rim, trying to pull out. He whimpers, makes this little keening whine. He slides down the wall and tries to press his cute little butt down, tries to follow Wade. God, he’s so desperate.

Wade can’t just leave him like this.

“Shh,” he says, as he slides back home with an easy, quick pump of his hips. His hips _smack_ against Peter’s little ass cheeks, wet with the shower water. “Shh, it’s okay. Daddy’s got you.”

Peter melts into his arms as he grabs his baby boy around the middle, leaning his weight down and pinning him against the wall. The shower spray hits them both, on Wade’s shoulders, on Peter’s head, but that doesn’t matter.

There’s no bed to rock now, so he slams into Peter with all his might. His baby boy grabs at the shower wall, at the windowsill, tries to curl his fingernails around the tiles for some form of purchase. But there’s nothing to hang onto as Wade pounds into him again and again, almost lifting him up off the ground.

“Yes,” he hears Peter sigh.

“You like that?”

_“Yes.”_

“Like it when Daddy takes what he wants?”

Peter’s answer is another little whimper. His tiny body shakes in Wade’s arms as Wade fucks him deep, picking up speed.

“I like it,” he says, face pressed up against the shower wall. “Like being your little slut, Daddy.”

The last few words might feel the tiniest bit phoned in, but they’re enough to push Wade over the edge. The hands around his baby boy’s torso hold him tighter still as he rams his cock in and out at a punishing pace. The _slap-slap-slap_ of his body against Peter’s fills the whole bathroom- they’re fucking filthy, god, he loves it-

He comes without a sound, bringing a hand down to grab Peter’s waist and hold him down as his cock spills out the first wave of come.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, rolling his hips. “Filling you right up, baby boy.”

“I feel it,” Peter says, still wiggling his hips down against Wade’s cock. Another few movements and Wade’s cock throbs again, another gush of come spilling out inside Peter’s cute, tight, tiny little ass. His hole is still clenched so tightly around Wade’s cock, he’s so, so tight-

“Oh, fuck,” Wade says, and his cock gives one last burst, another wave of come gushing out and joining the first. He rolls his hips and feels it sloshing around his cock, wet and sticky.

“Stay,” he says, and Peter stiffens against the wall. Wade leans over- still balls-deep inside his baby boy- and pulls the curtain back. He reaches down to the edge of the tub and picks up the string of five beads. Peter sucks in a breath of delight, beaming at them. He wiggles his perky little ass back against Wade’s cock, so impatient.

“Careful,” Wade says. “Or I’ll have to fuck you again.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Peter teases. Wade snorts.

“Lord knows you can take it,” he says, shrugging. “All right, then, hold these.”

And he shoves the beads between Peter’s lips. Peter takes them without hesitation, laving his tongue around them, dripping spit onto the basin of the tub.

It doesn’t take long for him to come again. By the time he’s done, and his cock has spent as much come as it can, Peter’s hole is leaking even around the edges, even before Wade’s pulled out. It’s gorgeous. He slides out and thumbs the trails of come back in, tapping that little hole as he does so. It flutters whenever he taps it too hard.

To hell with resisting temptation.

Wade sinks to his knees and presses his lips to Peter’s hole, swirling his tongue around the edge, catching the stray trails of come leaking out. When Peter’s clean, Wade curls his tongue into a point and shoves it right past that ring of muscle, lapping up everything he can find. He fucks his tongue viciously in and out, slurping obscenely, and Peter sinks down an inch or so on the wall, knees shaking so violently they almost knock Wade in the head.

Wade reaches up until he feels the slender length of Peter’s cock, which is hard and dribbling out precome like there’s no tomorrow. He thumbs over the head lazily as he keeps his tongue moving, flicking in and out of Peter’s hole. Peter makes a noise around the beads in his mouth, thrusting his cock into Wade’s hand. Wade flicks his thumb over the head of Peter’s cock every time he pulls back, and shoves his tongue down as far as it will go-

Wade might have been silent, but Peter is a banshee when he comes. He _screams_ around the beads as come splatters onto the shower wall once, twice, three times. The last little splurt of come dribbles over Wade’s hand.

He pulls his tongue out.

“Turn,” he says, and Peter turns. He fastens his lips over the head of Peter’s cock and sucks, _hard._

“T-too much,” Peter whines, voice muffled by the beads. “I- I can’t-”

 _Yes, you can,_ Wade thinks, and sinks down, tonguing over the head mercilessly. He flattens his tongue first right over the tip, then flicks it up and tongues directly into the slit.

Come bursts onto his tongue as Peter roars, shuddering uncontrollably as he comes again. Wade suckles the head and drinks down every last drop, tongue stroking over Peter’s slit the whole time. When he gets the last feeble dribble of come on his lips and swallows it down, he pulls off.

“Turn,” he says again, and Peter turns. “Beads,” he says, and the beads clatter down to the edge of the tub. Wade picks them up, thumbs the smallest one between his fingers.

He pulls Peter’s cheeks apart with his hands, presses a kiss to his quivering hole. The beads are slick with spit now, and he presses the smallest one up to Peter’s rim. It slides in without hesitation, as do the second, third, and fourth.

The fifth he saves for last, but he doesn’t need to. It goes in alongside the others without a single hitch.

“There you go,” Wade coos, reaching around and pressing a hand to Peter’s stomach. “How do you feel, baby boy?”

“Full,” Peter gasps. “So- _ah-”_ he yelps as Wade’s hand on his stomach pushes the beads around in a particular way. “So full.”

“Good,” Wade hums. “You don’t like it when you’re empty, do you?” Peter shakes his head. “You don’t like it, you want Daddy to fill you up.” Peter nods. “Well, that’s good.” Wade stands up again, reaching with his free hand to stroke himself. “Because Daddy’s going to fill you up again, right now.”

Peter stiffens. “Daddy?”

Instead of an answer, Wade lines himself up and pushes. Pushes hard.

Peter cries out, clawing at the tile, but Wade doesn’t stop. _You can do it,_ he thinks again. _Oh, yes, you can do it._

The head of his cock sinks down past the rim, nudging up against the beads.

Peter’s mouth falls open and a ragged cry leaves his lips, a long, loud yell.

“Take it,” Wade murmurs. “Take it, you can take it.”

“S’ too much,” Peter whimpers. “It’s- so- much-”

“You can do it,” Wade says, and presses in a little further. The beads part around his cock, almost as if they’re making a path for him. Peter’s so slick with come already that it’s barely difficult at all to keep sliding forward, keep feeding his cock into that hungry little hole, to watch it gobble down whatever Wade feeds it.

 _God,_ his baby boy is beautiful.

He sinks his cock halfway down into Peter before Peter actually starts crying.

“Hey, hey, shh,” he soothes, reaching down and taking Peter’s cock in his hand, stroking it gently. “It’s all right. Daddy’s got you.”

“Hurts,” Peter whimpers.

“It’s a stretch,” Wade admits. “But you can do it, baby boy. I just need you to relax.”

“Can’t-”

“Relax,” Wade says again. “Can you do that for me?”

Peter pauses. And then, slowly, he nods.

“Good boy,” Wade says. “You’re being so good for me, right now.”

The rest of the slide in is slow and torturous. Every few seconds he has to stop while Peter adjusts, whisper compliments in his ears, reassure him that yes, he can do it, just a little bit more. The beads squeeze around his cock almost painfully, and he knows there will be no real fucking if these things are involved.

And then. And then-

He barely has time to feel the sensation of being completely surrounded by those hot, sticky little walls, with five beads nudging around him, before he’s coming again, cock pulsing out one last wave of come inside Peter. His hand strokes over Peter’s cock, not even bothering to tease him this time, and Peter comes too, slapping his hands against the tiled wall as he smears it with one more splatter of come.

For a few moments, neither of them dare to move.

And then, carefully, _carefully,_ Wade pulls out.

Peter makes a little noise every time it hurts too much, but they make it eventually. Wade’s cock finally, _finally_ slips out with a slick little ‘pop’, and Peter gives an exhausted grunt, leaning against the wall of the shower.

“Good boy,” Wade murmurs, kissing Peter’s shoulders. He can’t help but leave a few little marks as he goes, suckling around the shoulder blades. “Such a good boy for me, you did so well.”

As he always does, Peter goes boneless under the praise. It’s one of those little _things_ that Wade loves so much about him.

“I knew you could do it,” he says, because impressive feats cannot go unrewarded. “Daddy’s very proud of you.”

Peter hums happily.

“Now,” Wade says. “Come on, let’s get you dried off.” He grins. “We can’t spend all day in the shower, can we?”

* * *

 

The only one who bothers to go in full costume and gear is Stark- because, well, without his costume he doesn’t have much in the way of gear. And so he’s in full Iron-Man armor, which he uses to unnecessarily hover three feet off the ground as Steve and Bucky run, shield glinting in the sunlight.

The shield over his back is the only thing Steve has on that looks remotely official. The rest of his body is covered in whatever he could grab quickest off the floor- jeans, Bucky’s white tank, and a button down that he doesn’t have the time to fasten over himself. Bucky’s taken Steve’s shirt in return, his black long sleeved thing. And in his haste, the metal had shredded the left sleeve of the shirt right off, leaving his metal arm bare to the world.

“Left,” Stark calls from where he’s hovering, and they turn.

“What then?” Bucky shouts, as Steve puts on another impressive burst of speed.

“Uh,” Stark says. “Another left. And then a slight- you know what, just follow me.”

His palm repulsors explode and he soars on ahead of them for a half block.

Even through the huff of his breath as he runs, Steve’s sigh of relief is audible.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, looking over at Bucky.

“No problem.”

“You do realize we’re probably walking into a trap right now,” Steve says. “Right?”

Bucky snorts. “Why do you think I sent Stark ahead?”

* * *

Wade carries him to the bed, bridal style.

After toweling him off for a good long while, he’d given Peter a quick kiss and told him to step out of the tub. Peter grits his teeth but gives a smile as he obeys, as Wade hoists him up under the legs, under the arms, and carries him right out of the bathroom.

Wade dumps him on the bed- like a piece of dirty laundry, Peter thinks darkly- and retreats back into the bathroom. When he comes back out, a fresh new mask is over his face, dry and clean.

“Let’s see,” he hums, heading to the bedside drawer and rifling through the contents. “Where did I put- ah!”

“Wait,” Peter says, as Wade’s fingers close around those silk ties again.

“Hm?” Wade looks up.

"Do you have something stronger?” Peter asks, biting his lip.

“Stronger?” Wade repeats, mask tilting to the side.

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Stronger.” He tries for a sheepish grin.

“Well,” Wade says slowly. “I think so.”

Peter thinks of the words _pretty, pink,_ and _little._ His cheeks flush red. Perfect.

“Well,” he says slowly. “I was trying not to break the last ones. You know, I’m pretty strong.”

Wade claps a hand to his mouth, sucking in a dramatic breath.

“Baby boy,” he gushes, “of _course!_ Oh, how could I have forgotten?”

And he leaps up from the bedside table and heads for the dresser, picking up his hum where he’d left off only a second ago.

“Something stronger” turns out to be magnetic metal shackles the size of bread loaves. Peter thinks he recognizes them from the SHIELD armory, when Mr. Stark had given him a tour of the place some time ago. He doesn’t know why Wade has them here, and he decides not to ask.

Within minutes, Wade has him strung up like a piece of meat. He’s lying on his back, legs spread in a ‘V’. His ankles are shackled to the upper corners of the headboard, and his wrists are tied with the silk ties to the shackles. His ass is propped up by a pillow- which, he has to admit, makes the whole thing a little more comfortable- which puts his cock on full display as it lies on his stomach, steadily drooling. The string trailing out his ass hangs above the mattress, the little ring swinging back and forth every time he moves. And his head is completely upside down, craned so that Wade can have the perfect angle as he slides his cock past Peter’s lips. Wade’s forgone the blindfold this time- either because he’s forgotten or because he wants Peter to be watching, Peter has no idea.

All in all, it’s not as bad as being tied the first time. Or the second.

Yeah, he thinks, after a few minutes of carefully controlled gagging. He can see why people might like this. It’s nice, not having to worry about what to do with his hands and your legs. To just let go.

He almost closes his eyes twice, but forces them open. He can’t fade out now. If he has to keep them going at it for the whole day, if that’s what it takes, then he’ll do it. But he can’t stop. Not yet.

Wade reaches down to give Peter’s cock a teasing stroke, when-

Something whips past the window. Something red.

Peter’s heart skitters behind his ribcage and he knows it’s time.

He tenses his entire body, yanks his wrists against the metal rings shackling him to the bed. The frame shudders violently, feet scraping across the floor, filling the room with a horrible noise that makes Peter’s shoulders tense.

“Baby boy,” Wade says, starting to pull out. But Peter can’t let him. If this is going to work, Wade can’t show any sign of concern, any sign that he cares about Peter in the slightest.

“No,” Peter gasps, as Wade’s cock slips out of his throat and rests, brushing against his bottom lip. “No,” he says again. “More.”

“More?” Wade asks, brushing his fingers over Peter’s hair. He brushes the hair first into Peter’s eyes, because Peter’s upside down. He laughs and brushes it the other way, so Peter has a clear view of his eyes- almost crinkled at the edges even under the mask.

Peter’s spider-enhanced ears almost twitch as something _whirrs._

“More,” he says, hurriedly- desperately. “Please- more.” When Wade still just looks at him, he gives an impatient sound. “Daddy?”

But Wade still just stares at him. Peter knows he’s almost out of time, he has to do something desperate.

“Daddy, _please,”_ he whines. “I need it, I need it, please.” He blinks, and then looks at Wade with the biggest eyes he can muster. “Choke me.”

Three things happen.

Wade hauls Peter’s head up off the mattress and slams home with a shout, not even bothering to give Peter a worded response as his cock smacks the back of Peter’s throat, as his fingers curl around Peter’s neck, pressing hard-

Peter screams with all his might, walls of his throat spasming uncontrollably, thrashing his wrists and ankles where they’re bound-

And the door explodes off its hinges.

“Get _off of him!”_ Tony Stark roars, and Peter hears the _whirr_ ing sound again. He screams, screams until his throat feels dry and ragged- but takes care not to let his teeth scrape. He squeezes his eyes shut as Wade’s cock tugs out of his mouth and his fingers fly off of his neck, and he sucks in a breath. He tenses his throat and forces out a little sob, working tears into his eyes.

“Dad?” he cries, cracking his eyes open. “Dad, _help me!”_

Across the room, Tony’s in full Iron Man armor holding Wade, one arm hooked tight around his throat, the other holding an iron-clad palm against Wade’s head.

“Clear!” Tony yells, and Bucky and Steve burst in through the door.

 _“Dad!”_ Peter shouts again, and they both storm across the room to meet him. Peter closes his eyes again, face burning red. This is the price he has to pay, he knows. He has to let them all see him like this.

“Oh, Peter,” he hears Steve say.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ he hears Bucky say, much closer.

“Get away from him,” Wade grunts, and Peter hears the sound of his feet pounding against the ground. “You can’t take him away, he’s _mine_ now, got it?”

There’s a split second in which Peter hears the telltale _whirr_ again, and then an explosion rocks the room. He opens his eyes again and sees Wade slumped against the wall, which is cracked down the middle, hunched over and clutching his stomach. Tony’s standing now, palm held out.

“He was choking him,” Tony says darkly, not an ounce of mercy in his eyes. “Holding him down.” Peter has never, ever seen him like this before.

And then the sound of metal against metal scrapes near his ears, as the shackles around his wrists and ankles break. Bucky throws them aside- Peter hears them clatter to the floor- and slowly grabs Peter’s ankles, lowering them as he slides Peter down the bed.

“Oh god,” Steve breathes, and Peter opens his eyes just enough to see Steve looking him up and down, eyes lingering at the lines of bruises up and down Peter’s chest, until they fall on his neck. “Oh _god.”_

“Dad?” Peter croaks, and he doesn’t have to feign the tremble in his voice. It’s been rubbed raw enough as it is. “Father?”

“We’re here,” Steve says softly. “We’re here, Peter. Don’t worry, don’t worry.”

“Baby boy, what the hell are you doing?”

Tony, Steve, and Bucky all turn furiously to stare at Wade, who’s halfway to his feet again. Tony’s palm gives a low hum, but he doesn’t fire yet.

“Don’t you dare,” Bucky growls, as Steve takes hold of Peter instead. “Don’t you _dare_ call him that.”

Wade takes a step forward.

“No- get away,” Peter babbles, shaking his head and working in a few more tears. “Dad- dad, help- don’t-”

Tony reaches out to grab Wade again, but Bucky is faster. Before Peter can realize what he’s about to do, Bucky’s metal fist is already flying. It connects with Wade’s face, sending a dull _crunch_ resonating around the room.

Wade stumbles back, clutching his face. _“Ow,”_ he says pointedly. “I mean, okay, I’ve had worse. But still. Metal arm? Not fun.”

“Shut up,” Bucky snarls. The metal hand flies again, this time grabbing Wade around the neck and pinning him up against the wall. Even from the bed, Peter can see his thumb digging in against Wade’s windpipe. A small part of him laughs in vindictive pleasure. It must look more like a sob to Steve, because he bends down and brushes Peter’s hair out of his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Steve says quietly. “We’re here, Pete. We’re gonna take you home, okay?”

Peter nods. “Okay,” he says.

“Get off of him,” Wade grunts again, voice garbled. “He belongs here now- he’s _never_ going back with you. He came here because he was sick of-”

Bucky’s other fist punches into Wade’s stomach and he grunts. Peter’s heart flutters in relief.

“Peter,” Steve says quietly, and Peter hitches his breath again.

“I d-didn’t want to,” he cries, shaking his head. “He took- took me and kept me- kept me here, and- and he locked me up in those _things_ -” He breaks off, shuddering.

Wade’s face twists behind his mask. Bucky’s hand lets go of his throat and he sinks to his knees again. “You,” he says slowly. “You little sneak.”

Peter doesn’t look at him.

“I don’t believe you,” he continues, as Peter keeps his eyes trained anywhere but Wade’s face. “After all of that- after all I did for you-”

“After all you did _for_ him?” Bucky repeats, looking as if he’d like to pin Wade up against the wall again. “I think the question is what you did _to_ him.”

“I think the question is what _didn’t_ he do to him,” Tony adds, glancing over at Peter. “I mean, look at the kid.”

Peter takes this as his cue to let out another sob, this time following it with a wail.

“Peter,” Steve says quietly. “Pete, it’s okay. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Hurts,” Peter says, tucking his legs to his chest.

And this is the part he’s really been dreading, but it’s the part that must happen.

“What hurts?” Steve, frowning, carefully sets his hand on Peter’s leg and looks-

And sees-

And lets go, turning to the side and covering his mouth.

“What?” Bucky snaps, abandoning Wade and looking back over at Steve. One glance at Tony, and he knows Wade’s not going anywhere. “Steve, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“He,” Steve says, shaking his head. “He-”

But he doesn’t have to say it, because Bucky’s already walked around the bed and taken a look for himself.

“Go,” Bucky tells Steve, and Steve gratefully stands and leaves the bed, hunched over. Peter shakes as the bed trembles from the lack of weight, and curls up a little tighter.

“Hurts,” he says again, sniffling.

“Okay, Pete,” Bucky says quietly. “I’m gonna need you to relax, okay? S’ gonna hurt more if you’re tense.”

“No,” Peter says, shaking his head. “No, don’t-”

“I’m gonna take these outta you,” Bucky says calmly. “But if you’re tense, it’s gonna be painful. So I need you to relax. Can you do that?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Tony says, looking away. Peter’s grateful for the illusion of privacy, as thin as it is. _“Je-_ sus, Wilson, you deflowered a fucking sixteen-year-old.”

“He was asking for it,” Wade says.

Peter’s too distracted by the shame of his father seeing him like this- having to do this at all- that he doesn’t have a second of warning this time before the wall explodes again and Wade yelps in pain.

“I mean,” he tries again. “I mean he was actually asking for it, like-”

Another blast of drywall and Wade goes limp against the wall, unconscious.

“Pete,” Bucky says.

Peter gives it a second or two, then nods.

Bucky silently tugs at the string and Peter lets the beads slide out, hiding his burning face in the mattress. The last three all fall out together, and Bucky makes a soft noise as he sees the mess that follows them.

“We need these?” Peter hears him ask. “Evidence? Or something?”

“Nah,” Tony says. “FRIDAY’s watching. We’ve got all the evidence we need.”

Horror seeps down Peter’s spine. He’d expected having to endure his parents seeing him like this. But. But the rest of the world?

Steve seems to be reading his mind, because he cuts Tony off. “No,” he says firmly. “This is staying private.”

“Steve,” Bucky says gently.

“No,” Steve says again. “No.”

Tony sighs. “Fine. Keep the… that.”

Bucky sighs and sets the beads on the bedside table instead of throwing them down on the floor with the shackles.

“Hey,” he says to Peter. “Hey, kiddo. You did good, all right? You’re doing great.” And he looks up. “One of you,” he snaps at Tony and Steve. “Get him some clothes.”

Steve fishes through the dresser. He stops at the second drawer and looks faintly nauseous again, but has the sense to shut it again before he can waste too much time. He comes back to the bed with a pair of boxers, sweats, and a loose T-shirt. Bucky takes them and hands them to Peter, who starts shakily putting them on.

“All right,” Bucky says quietly, once Peter’s done. “We’re gonna get you out of here, Pete. Can you walk?”

Peter gives a little shake of the head, letting his legs tremble a little.

“That’s okay,” Bucky says, and then arms slide under him, lifting him up off the bed. “Come up, put your arms around my neck.”

Peter does, and Bucky adjusts his hold so he’s carrying Peter bridal style.

“Christ,” Bucky murmurs, starting to carry him out of the room. “Your neck, pal.”

Peter whimpers.

It’s a testament to just how well Wade’s body takes damage that he wakes up then, even after being hit with two full-frontal repulsor blasts. Tony, who had let his attention wander to the sight of Peter in Bucky’s arms- and the sight of the rest of the room- doesn’t move quickly enough to stop Wade from standing up and trying to walk forward yet again.

“You,” he says, but his voice is low with defeat, not with danger. “I should have known from the start.”

Peter can’t help it, he _can’t._ He lets his head fall back and looks at Wade, eyes hard.

Tony grabs Wade around the middle with iron-covered arms, stopping him in his tracks.

“You were always gonna end at the top,” Wade breathes, eyes narrowing under his mask. “Should have known that meant I was gonna end at the bottom.”

And then, impossibly, Peter sees him smile.

Even through the mask, the mask without a mouth. He sees Wade’s eyes crinkle at the edges, can almost imagine what his mouth looks like, now. Turned up at the corners, a little longer on the right side than on the left- crooked, a little off kilter, a little broken. Just like him.

“Come on,” Bucky tells Steve. “Tony can handle him.”

Steve nods. “We’re gonna take you home, Pete. Get you cleaned up. Let’s get you some rest.”

“Home,” Bucky echoes, nodding. “Let’s go home.”

They walk, together, through the doorway. Wade watches them go, still bound by the metal arm around his waist.

Peter watches as Tony grabs the top of his mask. Peter watches as the thing slips up over Wade’s nose, watches it slide over the curve of his cheeks-

And looks away.

Because those eyes had never been meant for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks all for sticking thru with this trash story i love u all. may the daddy kink never die (praise be praise be)  
> xoxoxo
> 
> EDIT ~~okay so nix on the alt ending (im sorry lmao)~~ SURPRISE I WROTE IT AFTER ALL 
> 
> BUT I do also have a sequel sort of planned that I was debating on writing for a while, and then the spiderman homecoming trailer came out and WOW THAT WORKS SO WELL so that's definitely going to come someday (maybe after the movie even- im so slow im so r r y)  
> it'll be like this one only slightly less fucked up, because tony stark is not quite as terrible of a person as wade wilson is  
> (yes. tonys the  
> tony's
> 
>  
> 
> i might age him down just a little bit ok)
> 
> p.s. also if anyone wanted to make art for this fic i would literally pay u


	13. Alternate Ending (SMUT!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK U GUYS I KNOW UR ALL PERVS SO I WROTE AN EXTRA PORN CHAPTER FOR UR VIEWING PLEASURE
> 
> PLEASE ONLY READ IF UR A TRU SINBIN BECAUSE W O W  
> (technically not incest because Peter's adopted)  
> (but basically incest)  
> (because adopted or not family is family <3)  
> (seriously tho if ur not into pseudo-incest maybe skip this chapter)

“Oh, god,” Tony cries, throwing his iron-covered hand in front of his eyes for the second time today. “Oh god, I’m out. I can only walk in on two different pairs of disgusting people in one day, Jesus, I did _not_ sign up for this.”

Peter and Wade both stare open-mouthed at Tony as he gives one last shake of his head, and then reverses right back out the door.

“All yours!” Tony calls to the hallway where, unseen, Steve and Bucky must be waiting.

“Stark, what-” comes one voice- Bucky’s voice.

“Tony, get back here,” Steve tries.

But there’s no response.

“Well, don’t keep us waiting!” Wade shouts, not bothering to stop pumping his hips.

And Bucky and Steve step through the doorway.

Peter blinks at them, his view jolting with every slide of Wade’s cock down his throat. Neither of them appear to move for a good long while, just watching the sight of Wade fucking Peter’s mouth steadily. The only sounds are the _schluck-schluck_ of spit and the creaking of the bed.

And then.

“Aren’t those SHIELD property?” Steve asks, pointing at the headboard.

“Why?” Wade asks, reaching out and tugging at Peter’s cock. Peter gives a moan, tipping his head back so Wade’s cock can slide even further down his throat. “You want ‘em back?”

“As they don’t belong to you, I think I have the right to take them,” Steve says.

“Well,” Wade says, thumbing over the head of Peter’s cock. Peter gives another groan. “Come get them.”

No one speaks. Peter closes his eyes, because it’s so much easier to look nowhere than to look into anyone’s eyes. And then.

“Fuck it,” Bucky says.

“Oh my god, yes,” Wade says, pumping a fist into the air. “Get over here.” Bucky starts forward, but Steve hesitates. Wade rolls his eyes. “Both of you,” he corrects. “Come _on.”_

“Stevie, come on,” Bucky calls, as he reaches the bed and tugs at the collar of his shirt. “He ain’t gonna bite.”

“Unless you’re into that,” Wade adds with a grin.

Steve still hesitates. Bucky gives him a _look._

“I know you want to,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. He yanks the shirt up over his shoulders and throws it at Steve, who catches it, not batting an eyelash.

“Careful,” Wade teases, sliding his hips forward and holding them there. Peter, who’s gotten a little more used to being gagged like this, doesn’t choke immediately. He clenches his throat, trying to get some air in around the sides, through his nose. “I don’t think Captain Perfect likes your choice of words.”

“Oh, but he knows it’s true,” Bucky says, sidling up behind Wade.

Steve says nothing, still holding Bucky’s shirt.

“Let him watch,” Bucky says sagely. “He’ll join in when he’s ready.”

“Fair enough,” Wade chirps, looking down at Peter. Peter’s eyes are still squeezed shut. “Want a turn?”

Bucky considers it. “He’s yours,” he says eventually, watching the way Peter doesn’t flinch, even as Wade holds him down with considerable force. “His mouth is, anyway.”

“That’s the spirit.” Wade grins, pulling out to let Peter have some air. Peter gasps as his throat feels relief, eyes prickling with tears.

Bucky climbs onto the bed, which dips considerably under the weight of him, Wade, and Peter- Peter, whose eyes squeeze shut again, cheeks burning red at the sight of one of his fathers here, watching him.

“Hey, hey.” Bucky slides a hand over one of Peter’s thighs, gently. “S’ all right. No one’s upset, Pete. We’re just gonna have some fun, yeah?”

Peter’s eyes crack open again and he looks up at Bucky wordlessly. As Bucky watches, Wade slips his cock between Peter’s lips again and shoves forward. Peter takes it, still looking Bucky directly in the eyes.

“Fuck, Pete,” Bucky breathes, a hand going down to his jeans. “How’d you get so good at that, huh?”

“He’s had a good teacher,” Wade answers, reaching down and running his fingers over Peter’s hair. “Haven’t you, baby boy?”

Peter makes a sound that they all hear, even over the slap of skin.

Bucky shucks his jeans off and throws them to the floor haphazardly, turning his attention to Peter’s ass, on display to the whole world. He slides the forefinger of his flesh hand between Peter’s cheeks, stopping when he feels the little string trailing out from the pink pucker at the top.

“Oh, Pete,” he mutters. “Pete, you didn’t.”

“Mm, he didn’t,” Wade agrees. “I did.”

“How many?” Bucky asks.

“Five.” Wade smiles. “He’s so good at those.”

“I bet.” Bucky tugs at the string, and sees the edge of the last bead as it fights to escape, sees Peter’s hole stretch open once more, sees the plastic poke out. “Fuck,” he breaths, and tugs again. The bead slips out with a pop, taking come and lube with it. “Oh, fuck, he’s loaded.”

“To the brim,” Wade agrees.

Bucky tugs the string again and the beads slide out, one by one. Peter moans around Wade’s cock, hole clenching shut when they’re gone.

“Shh,” Bucky murmurs, stroking his legs again. “Shh, Pete. S’ all right.”

Kneeling on the bed beside them, Bucky spreads Peter’s cheeks with one hand, thumbing down into that pretty pink little hole. It’s raw and leaking still, and Bucky takes one more second to admire it before pressing his lips to the thing and shoving his tongue inside.

Peter _howls,_ loud enough to send vibrations down Wade’s cock to the base of his spine. Wade grips his hair tight and slams his cock as far down Peter’s throat as it will go, coming without a second thought. Peter swallows and swallows, gulping down as much as he can, but there’s not enough room in his mouth for it all and it trickles from the corners of his lips, dripping onto the bed below.

Wade pulls his swollen cock out and strokes it, breathing fast. “Good job, baby boy,” he coos. “Drink it down, there’s a good boy.”

Peter whines, tongue following Wade’s cock, managing to flick the tip.

Bucky pulls off. “Do it,” he says. “On his face, do it.”

“Don’t rush me,” Wade says. “You can’t rush perfection.”

Peter doesn’t seem to mind rushing. Taking Wade’s distraction as an opportunity, he lifts his head up off the bed and sucks the head of Wade’s cock back into his mouth, tongue working furiously.

“You know if you do that too much it actually hurts, right,” Wade says. Peter rolls his eyes, and Wade snorts. “Little tart.”

“Oh yeah, he’s a tart.” Bucky licks over Peter’s hole again, and it quivers in response. Bucky taps two of his metal fingers to the rim before sliding them in without hesitation. Peter’s so open and so slick already that they have no trouble at all, and Bucky buries them down to the knuckle.

He’d been expecting a response from Peter- maybe another groan, maybe a shiver. Maybe even a look. But Peter doesn’t even seem to notice the new intrusion, because he keeps suckling on the head of Wade’s cock as if it’s the only thing in the world he cares about.

And then-

And then Peter pulls off of Wade’s cock with a ‘pop’, looks Wade straight in the eyes, and says-

“Daddy?”

A sound pulls all three of them from their designated tasks. Bucky looks up from where he’s methodically wriggling his fingers in Peter’s ass. Wade looks around from where he’s holding his cock in his hand, perhaps moments away from splattering come onto Peter’s face. And Peter looks straight over at Steve from where he’s lying, still trussed up, ready and willing.

Steve stares at Wade, Bucky’s shirt held limply in his hands.

“Daddy,” Steve repeats, weakly.

“That’s right,” Peter says, without a trace of shame or nerves. “He’s my Daddy.”

Bucky slides the tip of a third finger around the edge of Peter’s rim. Before he can make the decision to shove it in alongside the others, Peter’s hole seems to swallow it of its own accord, and it slips down with a _sluck,_ slotting into place as if it had belonged there all along.

“And you’re my baby boy,” Wade says, looking down at Peter with what Bucky thinks might be affection. It’s hard to tell. He’s still a little distracted.

“He’s my baby,” Steve says.

“He was,” Wade agrees. “But look at him now, he’s all grown up.”

“All grown up and suckin’ cock like a champ,” Bucky mutters.

“That’s right,” Wade says proudly. “But I think he’s a little tired of this one, aren’t you?” He pats Peter’s cheek lightly, and then reaches up for the cuffs. Bucky ducks out of the way, fingers still buried deep, and Wade slides his thumb over the thumbprint reader. The cuffs give a little _click_ and then release.

Peter sags down onto the bed, legs falling, arms following. Bucky’s hand follows him, fingers working slowly. Wade undoes the ties to the cuffs and tosses them onto the floor, where they land with a heavy _thud._

“I wanna fuck him,” Bucky says, before the rest of them can speak.

“Be my guest.” Wade nods. Bucky pulls his fingers out reluctantly, and Peter flops onto his stomach, tucks his knees up under him, and props his little ass up in the air. He’s draped sideways on the bed, ass poking out one way, head on the other. Bucky stands behind him, looking down at that gorgeous sight, and Wade stands on the other, watching his baby boy’s little face.

“Well, you’re eager,” Bucky mutters, reaching down and finding that his own cock’s already hard and leaking. It’s not quite as big as Wade’s is, but it’s still impressive. He slides it neatly into the crevice between Peter’s ass cheeks and gives it a good couple of thrusts, slicking himself up. Peter rocks back against him, giving a wanton moan.

“Yeah?” Bucky grabs either side of Peter’s ass, squeezing. The little domes of flesh bend under his fingers, soft and smooth. Bucky raises his flesh hand and brings it down with a _smack,_ watches the motion ripple from his hand. Peter gives a little sound, looking up over his shoulder.

“More?” he asks, in a tiny, pitiful voice.

“Poor little thing,” Wade coos. “Go on, tell him what you want.”

“Want more,” Peter whines, looking at Wade this time.

“Ah, ah.” Wade shakes his head. “You’ve got to be more specific than that. Use your words, baby boy.”

Peter pouts. “Want.” He bites his lip. “Want him to fuck me.”

“Don’t tell me, tell him.” Wade raises an eyebrow.

Peter sighs, and then props his chin on his shoulder and looks back up at Bucky. Bucky’s eyes find the little trail of come by the edge of his mouth that’s still there, that Peter still hasn’t bothered to lick away.

“I want you to fuck me,” Peter says, and rolls his hips back so that Bucky’s cock slides between his cheeks again, balls slapping up against the bottom. “Please?”

“I can’t refuse someone with manners like that, can I?” Bucky murmurs. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

And he takes his cock in hand and feeds it into Peter’s greedy little hole. Peter stays where he is, though Bucky knows he wants to rock back and take the whole thing at once. He watches Peter’s rim stretch around his cock, swallowing it down, watches himself vanish as he buries himself inside Peter.

 _“Uuuuuuggghhhh,”_ Peter groans. “You’re so _slow.”_

“Oh, to be young again,” Bucky hums. “Not everything has to happen quickly, Pete. Someday you’ll learn the beauty of delayed gratification.”

“Trust me, he’s had a little experience,” Wade hums.

Under them, Peter falls silent. Bucky almost frowns. It’s not like Peter to refuse a comeback, especially when he’s been given such a perfect opportunity to deliver. He doesn’t look at Wilson, but cranes his neck to glimpse the door. Steve’s shield is flat on the ground, harmless.

For now.

“Almost there,” Steve murmurs, materializing behind Bucky and thumbing over his hipbone. Neither Bucky nor Peter make any movement of surprise at the sight or the sound of him. On the contrary- Bucky grins.

“Ain’t he a sight,” he says, not taking his eyes off of Peter’s ass, cheeks spread wide, hole stretched tight. “Ain’t he a sight.”

“Do it,” Steve breathes.

And Bucky does.

Peter’s taken Wade countless times before- and Bucky isn’t even as big as Wade is- at least, not quite. The head of his cock still nudges against Peter’s prostate, but only just. Wade’s cock smashes against it every time he’s inside Peter- but the change is nice.

Peter curls his fingers into the sheets as Bucky bottoms out. He’s been filled before- he’s probably been filled twice as much before- but the first slide in is something magical, every time. Even if he’s been stretched with toys and fingers and tongues, the first slide in always trumps. And this is no exception.

Bucky’s cock hits home with barely a sound, and Peter lets out a breath, low and hot. In front of him, Wade smiles.

“That’s it,” Wade coos, kneeling down and tucking Peter’s hair out of his eyes. “That’s it, baby boy. Good job.”

“Good?” Peter asks helplessly. He looks up through his eyelashes, because the angle’s just right and he’s always wanted to, and Wade bites his lip.

“So good,” Wade says, “that I think you deserve a little treat.”

“Daddy?” Peter blinks, looking up at him.

“Daddy’s going to give you a treat, yes.” Wade nods. “You want a treat, baby boy?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Peter says, nodding. He jerks forward as Bucky moves his hips just a little, just that.

“He’s still tight,” Bucky breathes, bottoming out with a slick little sound. “Even like that, he’s still tight.”

“Always,” Wade hums, not taking his gaze off of Peter’s eyes. “Go on, fuck him. He likes it.”

Bucky gives a slow little roll of his hips, his cock just feeling its way around inside Peter, nudging against the walls, bumping against every crevice it can find. Peter whines, wiggling his ass, trying to get friction. Bucky slides his hands back onto Peter’s cheeks again, spreading them wide and looking down at the sight.

“He’s beautiful,” Steve says.

Bucky smiles.

“Isn’t he,” Bucky says, and starts to fuck him.

Where Wade is reliable in his settings- slow or fast- Bucky is not. He starts with quick, shallow thrusts, barely pulling out at all before punching forward, slapping his pelvis hard against Peter’s little ass. And then without warning he pulls out nearly all the way, waits, and slams back in with a groan, sending Peter forward an inch or so on the sheets. And again. And then smaller thrusts, still pulling out halfway.

“Fuck,” Peter gasps, as Bucky pistons in and out of him with relentless speed, the slick of skin loud in the little room. His cock drools into the mattress below, rutting against the sheets with every thrust. He doesn’t reach down and stroke himself, not just yet. “Fuck, yes-”

“Language,” Steve says softly, and Peter looks at his father.

Steve looks back with big doe-eyes, and Peter doesn’t know what emotion they’re hiding. Steve’s lips don’t smile, but they don’t frown, and he just watches as Bucky fucks into him again and again.

 _“Daddy,”_ Peter whines, looking back up at Wade as he jolts back and forth with every thrust. “Daddy, you said-”

“I said you could have a treat, yes.” Wade nods, smiling fondly. “Say please.”

“Please,” Peter says instantly, breathing hard. “Please, Daddy, please, please.”

“Well, since you asked me so nicely.” Wade beams, fisting his cock and thumbing over the head. Precom drools between his fingers, and Peter’s tongue darts out to lap it up. Wade lets go of his cock and slips his fingers between Peter’s lips, and Peter takes to suckling them like he’s tasting freshwater for the first time in days.

“Look at that,” Bucky groans, watching them.

“He’s got a clever mouth,” Wade says proudly, as Peter’s tongue slips between each of his fingers, swirling around the digits, licking them clean. “When he puts it to good use.”

“Make him,” Bucky says, and Wade grins.

“A man after my own heart.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” Bucky warns. “There’s only one heart I’m after.”

Steve kisses his neck, still silent. His hands trail up and down Bucky’s sides, sometimes digging into the muscle, sometimes just sliding over the skin.

“Daddy,” Peter whines, cutting Bucky off before he can even start talking about Steve. It’s funny- so much so that Bucky snorts in earnest, still keeping pace.

“Mm, sorry, baby boy,” Wade coos, brushing Peter’s hair out of his face again. It’s so heavy with sweat and slick that it falls down instantaneously, curling between his eyes. “You want your treat?”

 _“Yes,”_ Peter groans. “Yes, Daddy, I want it. I want it, _please.”_

“Oh, baby boy, of course. Of course. Here you go.” Wade cups Peter’s head in one hand, taking his cock in the other. He holds the tip just far away enough that Peter can barely lick it, lap up the beads of precome that bubble from the slit. It almost looks like it’s enough for Peter, judging by the sounds he makes as he laps and licks and swallows. But Wade knows better. Wade knows much, much better.

“You’re a tease,” Bucky states, from where he’s reverted to slower, longer thrusts to better watch the sight of Peter licking the end of Wade’s cock.

“He likes it,” Wade says, and Peter gives no argument against this.

“I think he’d like it better if you were fucking his throat,” Bucky says, shrugging. “But maybe that’s just me. I mean, he seems to want it.”

“Of course he wants it,” Wade hums, tilting his cock a little closer so that Peter’s lips wrap around the head. Peter’s eyes slide shut as he sucks, humming a little to himself. It really is like drinking from a tap, the steady stream of nearly-bitter precome that drips onto his tongue and trickles down his throat. It must have something to do with his healing factor, Peter thinks.

Bucky huffs, and then slams his hips forward. Peter jerks forward, unbidden, and his mouth slides down without his own consent. Wade hums happily, not even bothered that Bucky’s overridden his unspoken commands. Peter sucks in a breath through his nose and swallows around the half of Wade’s cock he holds in his mouth, still moving with every pump of Bucky’s hips.

“Steve,” Bucky says, and Steve’s fingers still over his skin. “Come on,” Bucky breathes, shifting his glance to Steve. It’s absurd just how quiet his voice is, as his hips ram mercilessly into Peter. But his gaze is soft and steady, and only for Steve. Steve flushes pink. “Come on,” Bucky says again, “Take a turn with him.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head, voice strained. “No, I… I can’t.”

Bucky smiles sadly, shrugging. “Fine, if you’re sure. But at least make yourself useful, yeah?”

Steve nods curtly, putting his hands on Bucky’s back.

He’s always been fixated on Bucky’s back. Ever since his own back was skinny and bony and his spine had poked out like a wire skeleton through clay, Bucky’s back has always fascinated him. The way the muscles cling to his sides, stretch as he moves. The way his shoulders dip and duck with his arms, the way the small of his back tucks into a little hollow, the hollow so perfectly sized for Steve’s head to rest upon.

Nowadays, it’s no different. Steve can spend an hour just running his hands over Bucky’s back, feeling the muscles, working them soft again, rubbing his thumbs in the right places, whispering sweet nothings into the sheets.

He loves this man with every bit of his heart.

“Aw.”

Bucky and Steve look at Wade, whose hands are tucked under his head in a cute little gesture.

“What?” Bucky asks, voice bordering on defensive.

“You _love_ each other. That’s so sweet.”

“Took you long enough to notice,” Bucky snaps, as Steve flushes. “Cmon, Steve, hurry it up and fuck me already.”

“What was that about love?” Steve asks, and Bucky snorts.

“I tell you every day you’re alive- this ain’t exactly the best time, you know Pete gets squeamish whenever he sees us kiss.”

“I think Peter’s past the point of squeamishness,” Steve points out.

“True.” Bucky shrugs. “But I still think we should- _hah-”_

Bucky freezes as Steve shoves his cock between Bucky’s cheeks, jamming the head past Bucky’s rim. When exactly he’d taken his pants off, Bucky has no idea, but it’s really not the most pressing issue right now.

Ha, pressing.

Sometimes Steve likes to take him without prep first. It hurts, but it’s a special kind of hurt. It’s a familiar hurt. Bucky knows who he belongs to now-

(Himself, of course)

-but he also knows who his soul belongs to.

(Steve.)

And that alone makes the pain perfect, because the only one who can ever give him pain freely is Steve. The only pain he will accept is Steve’s, and the only pain he seeks is that which comes from Steve. And this.

This is _good_ pain.

Steve presses in slowly, because he’s always worried. They both know Bucky can take it, but Steve always wants to make the slide in gentle, just in case. He worries too much. Still motionless, Bucky feels his rim stretch, not by fingers, but by the slow press of Steve’s cock sliding inside.

Peter doesn’t complain about Bucky being slow this time, as he’s more than occupied. Wade doesn’t fuck his mouth just yet, but lets him suck and gulp wetly as he pleases. Spit dribbles past Peter’s lips, down his chin, splattering down to the floor below them.

“That’s it,” Wade hums. “Perfect, baby boy. Perfect.”

The praise works its magic, and Peter ruts against the sheets helplessly. He’s been hard for a good long while now, and he doesn’t want to come like this. Not if no one can see.

Wade seems to read his mind. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not yet, baby.”

Peter nods around his cock, understanding.

Wade slides down without warning, sheathing himself entirely in Peter’s mouth. Peter jerks as his airway blocks off, as Wade’s cock fills him up entirely. It’s as if he’s suspended, a cock stuffed in either end. And at once he’s strung up again, like a piece of meat.

Steve slides home with a little sigh, and Bucky squeezes his hand.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay. You can fuck him.”

“Language,” Bucky says, and picks his pace back up.

It’s hard to find a rhythm that they all agree on. Wade slams his cock between Peter’s lips as Bucky shoves his own down Peter’s ass. And behind Bucky, Steve starts to move too. Some movements match up, others bump into one another, some cancel out. Peter is stuck in the middle, a pinball knocking back and forth between them, lying on his stomach and letting it happen.

Wade comes first.

Not to say that all of them come, then. But Wade comes first, shooting off into Peter’s mouth with a hearty groan, yanking his head down by his hair. Peter swallows obediently, throat closing down around Wade’s cock, gulping down every drop of come he can taste. It’s nectar. It’s nectar and ambrosia and it’s bitter and Peter drinks it all.

Wade doesn’t even pull out after, just lets his cock sit hot and heavy on Peter’s tongue. Peter licks him clean as he waits out the microscopic refractory period, as he watches in-time as his cock fills again, swelling up to fit perfectly inside Peter’s mouth again.

“I want to,” Steve whispers, and Bucky smiles.

“I know,” he says. “I know you want to.”

“But,” Steve says. “Not without you.”

“No?” Bucky slows, but doesn’t stop. “I’ll be here, Stevie. The whole time, I’ll be here.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “I want to do it. With you.”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks. _“Oh.”_ Steve kisses his neck and he looks at Wade. “D’you think he can take it?”

Wade nods. “I don’t doubt it. He likes a good challenge.”

Bucky gives an answering nod. “Then we’ll do it together,” he agrees, and Steve bites down on the side of his neck, sucking hard. There’s never a point to marking one another, but they like to do it anyway. Bucky thinks it has something to do with having loved and lost each other so many times, but Steve will cover his chest in a mural of marks, up and down, either side, deep and purple and red and gorgeous.

“Turn him over,” Wade says, and Bucky stills. Not only will the angle be better, but Peter will be on display this way. Bucky pulls out, as does Wade, and together they help him flop onto his back, little chest heaving. His cock is flush and pink and stands up on his tummy, oozing precome everywhere.

“Pete,” Bucky breathes, looking at him. Peter’s face is pink, sweaty, lips betraying a little come around the edges as they part of their own accord, as he breathes heavily, staring up at them all.

“Sweet thing,” Steve hums. Bucky climbs onto the bed, straddling Peter with his knees. It takes some fiddling, but he yanks Peter’s legs up over his head, holding his ankles firmly. Steve reads his mind, grabbing Bucky's cock and feeding it into Peter’s hole gently. Bucky gives a couple little thrusts before sinking down and holding himself there.

Peter dips his head back, looking upside-down at Wade.

“He can take it?” Steve asks, directing the question at Wade. It strikes Peter as odd that they’re asking Wade’s permission for this, like Peter’s just a toy they’re borrowing. As if Peter’s some complicated machinery, and Wade’s the one who knows the manual inside and out. As if Peter’s a _thing,_ and these three men are passing him around like something to be shared, savored.

The thought goes straight to his cock and he cries out, nearly coming untouched against his own chest. His cock burbles out a gush of precome, spilling onto his stomach and sliding down to meet Bucky’s cock, lodged firmly inside him.

“He can take it,” Wade confirms, nodding. “Go on.”

Steve looks down at Peter’s rim, stretched tight around Bucky’s cock. Warily, he slides a finger around the ring of muscle, tugging it open. Peter obliges, and Steve’s finger slips in alongside Bucky’s cock. Steve swallows thickly and, with trembling fingers, brushes the head of his cock to that opening.

Peter tenses, unable to help himself. Steve’s finger tugs, trying to make room, and Peter tries to relax, tries to let himself stretch. It’s so much already, and he’s not even close to done yet.

The head of Steve’s cock slips in beside his finger, just barely. Steve pulls his finger back, letting the edge of Peter’s rim squeeze tight around him.

Peter screws his eyes shut, barely breathing.

Steve presses forward. Bucky’s slick already, and Peter’s hole is liberally coated in the mess of sweat, lube, and come. It’s easy as anything- though tight- to feed his cock forward until Peter’s hole swallows it all, until he’s flush up against them.

Peter’s throat clenches and his breath shudders out. He trembles underneath them, legs quivering under Bucky’s hands.

“Shh,” Wade coos, running his hands underneath Peter’s head, through his hair. Peter cracks his eyes open, tears pooling in the corners, and looks helplessly up at Wade.

“D- Daddy,” he stutters. “Daddy, it hurts. It’s so much.”

“I know,” Wade hums. “But you can do it, can’t you?”

Peter’s throat hitches. “I don’t know,” he moans. “I don’t _know._ It’s so _much.”_

“Baby boy, you remember the first time with me?” Wade asks, as Steve slowly rocks, hand scrambling to find Bucky’s. “You remember how that hurt at first?”

“Mhmm,” Peter says, blinking tears out of his eyes.

“This is just like that,” Wade tells him. “It hurts a little, but it’s going to get better. Daddy promises.”

“Okay.” Peter swallows. “O- okay.” The stammer makes him flush red- he’s never not in control of his words like this. He either says them or he doesn’t. They don’t stumble and catch on his tongue like this.

“Fuck, Stevie,” Bucky breathes, letting go of one of Peter’s legs to hold Steve’s hand. His flesh fingers tangle with Steve’s. “Fuck, I can feel you.”

“I can feel you,” Steve whispers, hips nudging forward of their own accord. “Oh, god. Buck.”

“You wanna move, or me?” Bucky asks, giving an answering nudge. “I don’t think it’ll work if we both go at once.”

“I want,” Steve says, but can’t finish. Bucky knows he’s flushed red with shame, and smiles.

“You, then,” he says. “You can do it.”

Steve starts.

It’s slow, at first. Bucky can’t tell if it’s because Steve is scared of hurting Peter, or if it’s because Steve is scared. Perhaps both. Under them, Peter whimpers. His cock sags a little under the new sensation, but not completely.

“There we go,” Wade coos, eyes only for Peter. “There we go, it’s not so bad, is it?”

“Uh-uh,” Peter says, shaking his head. “But it’s. A lot.”

“I know, baby boy. I know.” Wade strokes his cock, holding it up in front of Peter’s face. “Come on, give Daddy a taste.”

Peter licks obediently, swiping his tongue over the swollen head of Wade’s cock.

The room fills with the sounds of Steve slowly fucking into Peter, alongside Bucky, and Peter’s tongue slurping over Wade’s cock. It’s wet and it’s filthy and Peter can’t help it. He’s hard again, even as his ass burns with the stretch of two cocks inside him.

“That’s it,” Wade groans, tapping his cock down on the underside of Peter’s tongue. “That’s it, that’s perfect.” Peter flattens his tongue and stretches it out, letting Wade slap his cock down messily. And then before Peter can take in a breath, Wade shoves his cock forward, sliding it down Peter’s throat. He can almost see Peter’s neck bulge where Wade’s cock is buried, pulsing, leaking. Peter swallows dutifully, letting spit trickle down past his lips, down to his temples.

“You’re doing so well,” Bucky hums, watching.

 _“So_ well,” Wade echoes, trailing a finger down Peter’s neck.

“We’re proud of you, Peter,” Steve says, and it might be a little bit overkill but Peter takes it to heart.

They all love him, he realizes. Maybe not in the same ways. Maybe some more than others. Maybe some better than others. But it doesn’t matter, because they all love him. And he’s here, now, helping to love them back.

“Buck,” Steve murmurs, as he finds a rhythm that stays within the boundaries of ‘too much’ and ‘oh god not enough’.

“Mm?” Bucky thumbs over Steve’s hand.

“Move,” Steve breathes.

Bucky hesitates.

“Pete?” he asks.

Peter can’t answer. He gives an answering swallow around Wade’s cock, gurgling a little.

“He’ll be fine,” Wade says. “I told you, he likes a challenge.”

“If he doesn’t,” Bucky says, “I’m sure he’ll let me know. Won’t he?”

Wade shrugs. “Sure.”

Bucky looks down, and as if he can feel Bucky’s eyes on him, Peter cracks his own open. They’re still lined with tears, but remarkably sharp.

“Kick me,” Bucky says, tapping Peter’s foot with the tip of his metal finger. “If you want.”

Peter blinks up at him and closes his eyes, understanding.

And Bucky moves.

He’s not slow like Steve. He doesn’t start soft and build, he knows what he wants and he takes it. He pulls out when Steve pushes in, making sure they don’t both pop out at once. After a handful of pumps, they understand one another, and set to work fucking in turns, skin slapping noisily in the little room.

Peter lies limp under them, his little cock straining. Bucky can’t reach down- he’d have to let go of either Steve’s hand or Peter’s leg, and he holds both in iron grips- so it’s up to Steve. Steve reaches around and feels for it, hand scrambling blindly over Peter’s little sweat-slick chest until he finds his prize.

His hand is gentle as he strokes Peter, thumb tucking over the head with every other pump. Peter whines around Wade’s cock, finally feeling the edge come off a little. It’s easier to take two cocks when he can focus on the feeling of that hand over his own, that blessed, blessed friction. He’s slick, so slick, and Steve’s fingers slide over him, sweat and precome leaking onto his skin.

“Tight,” Bucky hisses, as he speeds up and Steve joins him in turn. “Fuck, that’s tight.”

“It’s good,” Steve adds.

“Very,” Bucky agrees.

“Buck,” Steve groans, and his hand clamps white around Bucky’s. “Buck,” he says again.

“Me too, Stevie,” Bucky whispers. “Me too. Fuck, me too.”

“You gonna fill him up?” Wade hisses, and they both look to see that he’s just watching them, cock lodged solidly in Peter’s throat, still as anything.

Bucky has the absurd thought then that, if he could just take his hands away, he might be able to reach up and strangle the man.

“Yes,” Steve groans, and the thought vanishes.

“Together,” Wade murmurs, as Steve seems to lose a bit of control, hips thudding harder.

“Together,” Steve echoes, pressing his chest flush against Bucky’s back. “Buck-”

“I’m with you,” Bucky says. “I’m with you, Steve.”

“Bucky,” Steve pants. “Bucky, Bucky- _Bucky-”_

“Stevie,” Bucky answers, and-

Together they press forward, slamming home. Steve gives a little sob-moan-gasp as he comes, but Bucky is silent. Their hands, linked together, nearly break under the pressure. They shoot off together, spilling hot and sticky inside Peter. Mingled together, it fills the space around them, whatever space is left, and leaks out the edges, trickling down between Peter’s cheeks and dripping onto the bed below.

Steve’s hand works over Peter’s cock and Peter figures now is as good a time as ever. Finally letting the edge come to him, he jerks and quivers and comes over his chest, over Steve’s fingers. It’s like wrenching a weight off his chest- no, not even off of his chest. It’s like wrenching a weight _out_ of his chest, a weight that’s been sewn into his skin and veins. It tugs at him as he comes, pulls at him, until at last it’s out and it’s off and he can _breathe._

Wade’s cock slips from his mouth and he gasps-

Just in time for the splatter of Wade’s come to hit his tongue, his cheeks, the back of his throat.

Peter coughs, surprised, but sticks his tongue out anyway to catch the rest. And the last few dribbles land on his lips, and.

And.

And it’s a while before any of them move.

Eventually, Steve pulls out. Peter whines as he does it, as the drag against his rim almost tears, but Steve pulls out. And then he’s out, and Bucky follows suit, and Peter’s little hole closes right back up into a perfect pucker, cherry-red with a streak of cream running down the middle.

“Huh,” Bucky says, watching it.

Behind him, Steve’s face burns red and he kneels to pick up Bucky’s shirt, his own jeans. Bucky steps back, letting Peter’s legs fall back down, and Peter slowly sits up, propping himself up by his arms. He twists his neck to look back at Wade, not wanting to turn his back on the man for a second.

Bucky’s lips tighten.

Behind him, Steve rummages with the clothes. But before him, Peter and Wade look at one another. Wade trails a thumb over Peter’s cheek, smearing the spots of come together as if painting a picture. He looks utterly transfixed.

“I’m impressed,” Bucky says. “Even I can’t put out that much in one round.”

“So you finally got to use that line,” Wade mutters. Bucky frowns, only a little confused. It’s not like it’s a fantastic line, and he hasn’t been keeping it some secret for months, or anything. But, well, if it’s worthy of a comment, that must mean it’s all right.

“Guess so,” he says. “Anyway, uh. Good job.”

“High praise,” Wade says.

“Yeah.” Bucky racks his brains, but nothing comes to the surface. There has to be something. Small talk. A joke. A setup to a joke with no punchline. _Anything._

“Uh,” he says, and the shield soars across the room and hits Wade directly in the face.

Peter screams, clutching his knees to his chest and watching as Wade crumples, unconscious, to the floor.

“Huh.” Bucky arches his back, wincing as it pops and crackles back into place. Steve jogs around the side of the bed, kneeling to grab Wade around the torso and prop him up. Peter stares between them both, suddenly looking small.

“We’re not angry at you,” Steve says, and Peter’s shoulders soften just a touch.

“Well,” Bucky says. “That takes care of Wilson.”

“What’s,” Peter starts, looking at Wade’s unconscious body as Steve hefts it up and onto the bed. Peter scoots away to the other edge, still hugging his knees to his chest. Steve nods to the dresser drawers, and Bucky goes to fetch him some clothes. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“Oh, he’ll go somewhere,” Bucky says, shrugging. “Somewhere where he can sit and think about what he’s done.”

“Oh.” Peter, Bucky notes, doesn’t seem too bothered by this. He makes a mental note to ask what, specifically, Wade _had_ done. Because if the idea of Wade going to prison isn’t that troubling to Peter, then, well. Something must have happened.

He tosses Peter a pair of sweats and a tee, then grabs his own clothes off the floor. They all dress in silence, ignoring the smell of sex and the feeling of stickiness on all of their skin.

And then at last Steve hauls Wade up over his shoulders and Bucky hefts Peter, exhausted and too worn-out to walk- into his arms, and they face the door.

“When we get home,” Steve says, “we’re going to have a talk.”

“A very, _very,_ long talk,” Bucky adds.

Peter smiles.

And they leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *collapses* two dicks at once is already hard enough to keep track of why did I write _four?_  
>  we did it. we made the Worst Fic. im so proud of us  
> (note: the alt ending ain't canon its just Horrible Porn for the sake of Horrible Porn)
> 
> also a sequel is coming!! im not sure when it'll be up but I'll post a chapter here linking to it, and it'll be listed as part of a series with this one. AND im thinking of maybe a sequel after that one with even more spideypool (maybe healthier? maybe not? maybe both?) so maybe???? the future???
> 
> thanks to those people who keep leaving comments 10000 years after the fact, u guys are honestly the only reason this epilogue exists at all  
> xoxo
> 
> P.S. if anyone ever wanted to make art for this i would p a y y o u  
> js


	14. Sequel Link

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel is up! Excerpt and link are enclosed!

Full fic **[HERE!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9542402)**

Excerpt:

* * *

Tony Stark watches through the window as Barnes and Rogers ship out, Peter tucked in their arms. He can just see the kid’s feet swinging helplessly as they walk, bobbing up and down with every step Barnes takes. On the street, a helpful car pulls up- FRIDAY’s doing, of course. He can hear them both cooing nervously over Peter for a few moments before the door clamps shut and the car pulls away, and then-

And then nothing.

He lets go, and Wilson slumps to the ground.

“Fuck,” Wilson groans, rubbing his face. It’s black, flaking off in pieces where Tony’s repulsor blast had grazed it. Behind him, the wall bears a small crater, dust trickling out from the corners of every crack. A very, very small part of Tony had been merciful, even though he knows that Wilson can’t die and that he’s probably had much worse than a repulsor blast to the face.

Everyone always forgets that there’s a ‘genius’ part in his whole ‘genius billionaire playboy philanthropist’ label. They tend to stick to the middle two. After all, a billionaire playboy is much more sellable than a genius philanthropist.

But, yes. Tony is, in both his words and in others’, a genius. And as such, Tony notices things.

He’s not a genius enough to know what he notices, exactly, but he knows that he notices something. He tucks it into a pocket of his mind.

“So,” he says.

Wilson says nothing. He rubs his face experimentally, as if he isn’t quite used to it being exposed to the air. Tony thumbs the mask between his fingers, looking at it. Wilson gives a low sigh, looking straight at the ground.

“I’m assuming you have a place in mind for me,” he says.

“Eh.” Tony shrugs. “There are a few.”

Tony doesn’t want to put Wilson away. Tony doesn’t want Wilson to leave this room. The vast, vast majority of Tony wants to aim at Wilson and close his eyes and open them to see a mural of gore over the walls, wants to make Wilson pay dearly for this. And the moment the thought crosses his mind, he shuts it down. He is not a violent person, he can _choose_ not to be a violent person. He’s going to take Wilson away, as he and Barnes and Rogers had decided together.

“Is that code for some secret government experiment lab thing?” Wilson asks. “Because I’ve had about enough of that for a lifetime. Several lifetimes, actually.”

“No,” Tony says stiffly, still looking at the mask. Wilson can’t run. He’s naked, charred, and slumped in the wreckage of his own house- and Tony is fully armored and ready to fight. “You’ll just be held.”

“Right,” Wilson says, and lapses into silence. Tony rubs the mask between his thumb and his finger and feels it rip under the pressure of the metal plates. He drops it to the floor.

“Up,” he says.

“Am I at least allowed to take my unicorn?” Wilson asks, twisting over his shoulder to look up at Tony. He gives Tony a look that sends a shot of hatred straight into Tony’s gut. It’s a hopeful look, almost like there’s a punchline waiting to hit. Wilson doesn’t care- not about Peter, not about himself, not about anything.

Tony doesn’t smile. Wilson’s hope evaporates and he sinks another inch down the wall. And Tony.

Tony-

“We’ll see,” Tony says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: WOW SO APPARENTLY PUTTING THESE IN A SERIES JUST SLAPPED THEM ON THE FRONT OF MY AO3 PROFILE FOR ALL TO SEE   
> HMM GREAT   
> SO  
> these are no longer listed as a series officially, but they are canonically linked. And the sequel is still up so that link still works.   
> God what a nightmare


End file.
